Smokescreen
by chiisana-inori
Summary: AU. He's an enemy of the Districts, a fugitive of the Capitol, and currently living under her roof. Things are about to get complicated. Katniss x Seneca
1. Chapter 1

**Smokescreen**

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**K. POV**

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My eyes snap open at the moment of impact, but there is none.

It's dark. My awareness is a splintered thing, a jumble of half-images and heightened sensations. I'm nothing but a frantic heartbeat, nerves on fire, sweat on skin. In my paralysis, I struggle to make sense of what I can recall: Tall trees with sunlight pouring through. A cannon booming in the distance. Running over uneven terrain. Fragments of blue watching me from the undergrowth. A misstep, then free-falling. With shaking hands, I feel around for broken bones and torn flesh. I'm sure I'm a million pieces shattered but strangely enough, I only find a smooth expanse of clammy skin.

That's when my eyes begin to adjust. A weak light filters through a gap in the curtains and the mundane details of my room begin to materialize in degrees; the oak vanity, the brass mirror, the flowered wallpaper. Solid, normal things. Everything mercifully slows down. I relax back into the mattress and stare at the little indentations in the ceiling. I repeat to myself: _I am at home, safe in bed, far from the forest _even though it's a truth that can't be any truer.

I shift over to my side and pick up the clock on my nightstand to squint at it. It's barely dawn and I'm wide awake. Even if I could go back to sleep, I wouldn't want to. The phantom stench of blood lingers in my nose and it makes me the deepest part of me shiver.

The nightmare had felt so real. One week before, it _had_ been real.

Haymitch, my mentor, told me about the visions, that they were a badge of the Games. It was on the bullet train back to District Twelve. I distinctly remember that he had punctuated this with a long swig from his flask. The point couldn't have been made any clearer. I swore right then and there that I wouldn't turn into him or other Victors of the past; a broken thing addicted to being numbed.

It hadn't hit me at first. Being in the Capitol was like drifting through a dream. Now that I'm back at home, I'm thinking I was hasty in my judgment. I assumed the visions would be like flashbacks but what I face on a nightly basis is an entirely different breed; a mixture of events real and imagined. What I did, what I should have done, what could have happened; all magnified and distorted. Like fingerprints, no two are alike, but they always end the same. I die. Night after night. Painfully, horribly, vividly. It's tempting to turn to something that can shut out these images, especially when waking in my new room in Victor's Village offers no lasting comfort. It's a harsh reminder of what I paid for it.

Peeta. I bite down on my lip to distract myself from the wrenching in my chest. Perhaps it's only fair this way.

A banging noise startles me from my daze. It's a trigger that sends my heart pounding all over again until I realize that it's just someone is downstairs, at the front door. I relax by a small fraction. No one ever comes this early with good news. The knocking is persistent. Horrible news it is, then. I ease myself up and push away the sheets to answer its call. Whatever it is, it's a welcome distraction.

On unsteady legs, I make it through the darkened hall and down the stairs. There is no peephole so I carefully open the door a sliver to look through. Gale is here; his tall frame, what I can see of it, illuminated by the porch light. I feel equal parts relieved and anxious. If it had to be anyone at my door early in the morning, with the remnants of a nightmare still fresh in my mind, I'd want it to be him. He's my oldest friend, familiar and safe. But even so, I feel a ripple of self-consciousness as I stand in a thin cotton nightdress, my hair all snarls. This is the first time I've seen him since the stilted meeting after my homecoming, since I realized that a rift had formed between us. The Games had changed things drastically, but I think it began before that, when I noticed the strange look of longing in his eyes that made me feel uneasy.

I shut the door so I can unchain the lock and open it wider. I see that this is not the time to linger on petty issues. At the moment there is an injured and thoroughly disheveled man slumped against him, his head tipped down so I can't see his face.

"Help me get him in," Gale urges, and I quickly come around to the man's side and sling his arm over my shoulders. I try not to gag. He reeks of blood, sweat, and earth. Although he's lean, he's as limp as a rag doll and the deadweight makes it difficult to haul him inside the house. I guide them to a spare room on the ground floor, where we carefully lay him out on the bed.

My hand moves to his wrist where I detect a weak but steady pulse. "Where did you find him?"

Gale rests against the wall. A slight sheen of sweat reflects on his face. "I was in the woods to check the snares I set out a yesterday when I saw a shape on the ground in the distance. I thought it was a felled deer at first." He grimaces slightly as he mops his brow with the back of his hand. "He was barely breathing. I shook him awake and got him to stand with some help. We made it back through the fence together but he was slipping in and out. By the time we got here, he was unconscious again."

"What was he doing in the woods?" I ask, although I'm certain Gale knows no more than I do.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

I perch on the edge of the bed, studying him intently by the light of the bedside lamp. At first glance, he doesn't seem to belong to District Twelve. He lacks the olive skin of the Seam and the light hair of the merchant class. Underneath the caked dirt and blood, I can see his features are striking; a strong chin and jaw line, a defined nose, and startling jet black hair. Although I don't personally know every citizen of Twelve, I'm sure he's not from around here. I would have remembered him. I try to think. He was found in the forest, and the only place beyond that is District Thirteen. But it's a wasteland and he couldn't have possibly come from there.

He stirs at my touch when I brush my hand over his forehead to smooth away his hair. His skin is burning hot; a fever on top of the half-healed bruises and cuts all over his body. I look closely and see that these aren't the self-inflicted kind, accidental or not. He had been severely beaten. With a sick twist of my gut, I wonder if he had been brought to the woods and left for dead.

"I'm getting my mother," I tell Gale as I rise to my feet. Before I can turn away, the man on the bed groans. He moves his hand, his fingers tangling in mine; a small entreaty to stay. His eyes slowly open. Even unfocused and bleary with fever, they're a strange bright blue that chills me to my core. I stiffen under his gaze. It's… oddly familiar, like I've seen it in another lifetime. And when I think that I'll be tortured wondering for the rest of the morning, I suddenly place it. A little clicking noise goes off in my head, like a grenade pin being pulled. There is only one other person I've met before with these eyes; someone miles and miles away, far too important to be mistaken for this man in rags. I tell myself it's impossible but the more I look at him, the stronger my conviction grows.

We had met once, fleetingly. I can barely recognize him without his crisp red and black uniform and his perfectly groomed beard, but once I make the connection, I wonder why I didn't realize it sooner. The maker of my nightmares stares back at me, a similar recognition flickering in his face before he sighs and sinks back into the bed, his hand dropping to his side.

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**A/N: **Hello! Trying something completely different from 'Spectacle' here, as well as attempting a first person POV. Let me know what you think!

-Chiisana inori


	2. Chapter 2

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**K. POV**

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To my surprise, I don't panic. I feel oddly calm, as if this is completely inconsequential and at any moment, I'll wake up in my bed. Here is the man who toyed with the lives of others for entertainment, now weak and at my mercy. It's more like wishful thinking than anything else. Then I remember that my dreams of late have never been this pleasant. I chalk it to reality.

"Katniss? What's wrong?" When I don't respond right away, Gale pulls me by the shoulders so I'm facing him. His callused hands are heavy and warm on my bare skin. In any other circumstance, his touch would put me on edge but at I find it comforting in the moment; anchoring me down so I don't float away.

I look at him and finally have a grasp on words. "This is Seneca Crane."

There's a tense silence as he processes this. He knows that name well. Everyone does. Seneca Crane is the Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games. He has been for the past three years, though no one outside of the Capitol can tell what he looks like. The District broadcasts are pared down to bare bones, missing hours upon hours of the pre-Game frivolities that play constantly on Capitol telescreens. To us, he is nothing but an invisible hand, a faceless boogeyman who devises creative deaths when brutality is not enough.

But he's here now; very human and vulnerable.

"What should we do?" he asks quietly. Gale is no simple-minded man. I'm sure he's thinking of a million ways this can play out. Blackmail, torture, bribery, ransom. Opportunities he's only dreamt of out in the woods.

I turn my gaze to the man on the bed, focusing on the feeble rise and fall of his chest. Only one thing comes to mind. "Nothing," I whisper. A small part of me is appalled by my severity, by the little trill of electricity that runs down my spine. I won't expedite his death in any act of cruelty or mercy. Just as the twenty-three Tributes had fallen, he will suffer slowly and right before my eyes. As poetic as it is, I realize the damage done on me is far worse than I imagined. The battle scars from the Games might have been erased, but I don't think anything will fix my screwed up head.

"You don't mean…?" he trails off with uncertainty. Whatever plans he had, they must be kinder than mine.

"There's nothing we can do for him." My voice sounds strangely hollow in my ears, like it coming from somewhere else. "I'm glad you found him. No one deserves to die alone."

"Does he have to die?" These words don't come from Gale's lips. In the space of a heartbeat, the blood in my veins turns into ice.

I turn around in surprise, breaking away from Gale's grip. My little sister stands in the door frame like an apparition; pale, slight, and soundless. Her hair is tousled from sleep but her eyes are alert. "Well? Does he?" she asks quietly.

Since I've been home, I like to believe that I've done a good job disguising the fact that I'm a walking wreck. I work the hardest to fool Prim. Though she's more than aware that my hands are stained red, I find myself fighting to preserve her innocence and love for me. They're the most precious things I have but as the seconds tick on by, I can feel them slipping through my fingers, the words I can't take back still hanging in the air.

"Does he deserve to live?" I challenge back, desperate to explain myself. "His livelihood is based on the Games, Prim. He's responsible for so many deaths."

She advances slowly into the room, her bare feet noiseless against the wooden floorboards. She stops at the foot of the bed and looks at me, her eyes filled with a pity. I don't know if it's for the sick man on the bed or my own brokenness. "We don't get to choose who lives and who dies."

I scoff reflexively at the irony. "He's a Gamemaker. He did exactly that."

"Then shouldn't we be better than him?"

Her words are a sucker punch that leaves me too stunned to speak. My certainty, so strong before, is derailed. I can't tell if it's a perverse sense of justice or selfishness that drives me, but I realize that if I act upon it, I will be no better than the very things I accuse him of.

Prim comes up and hugs me tight, breaking me from my spell. She says it so softly I can barely discern it: "It won't bring them back, Katniss." Twelve years old and she knows just what to say to dismantle me. I don't want to argue any longer. I don't want my sister to see the monster I've become.

"Wake up mother," I say, and it finally sounds like me.

Right now I'll grant him mercy for that alone.

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I am a dispassionate observer as Prim flits around with purpose, fetching rolls of gauze and vials of mysterious dry things from wooden cabinets. Unlike my sister, I don't have a drop of apothecary's blood in me. I don't know how to distinguish herbs, bandage wounds, or at the very least adopt a bedside manner. The best thing I can do for now is stay out of the way, so I do it well.

Gale has been sworn to secrecy and sent home. Before he left, I took him aside and sternly told him that this was important, that no matter what, no one could know of this. If the people involved found out that Seneca Crane was alive and in our care, we would all be in danger. He grimly promised that he would never do anything that would hurt us. I believe him. He hasn't broken a promise to me yet.

I help Prim carry everything to the guest room, where my mother is tending to him. She hardly batted an eyelid when I debriefed her on the situation. When she attends to her Healer duties, she's oblivious to everything but the task at hand.

I watch as she uses scissors to cut away his dirty torn shirt, exposing his torso. Ugly bruises of every color bloom like flowers across his pale skin. I wince. If what I believe is true, I don't want to imagine the consequences this would bring on me or my family.

"Katniss, I need you to get clean clothes for him," mother says as she discards the cut-up rags. "Try to be discreet. Perhaps you can find something at Haymitch's." I don't bother reminding her that finding clean clothes at Haymitch's is highly unlikely. It's an opportunity to get away from the overwhelming smell of sickness and medicine, so I take it. I put on a house coat and slide on leather slippers and I'm out the door.

The fresh morning air clears my mind. As I walk, I find myself replaying the morning's events in brutal detail, not even sparing myself from the worst of it. Dread weighs heavy on my chest when I think about what would've happened if Prim hadn't intervened. I've killed before but it was always about survival. This was different. Killing for the sake of killing… I try to remind myself that it was in the heat of the moment; that I was exhausted and emotional. I want to believe that I'm not capable of such cruelty, but there's still a shadow of doubt that unsettles me. I exhale sharply and shake my head, ridding myself of these thoughts. I need to focus on one thing at a time or I'll go mad. For now, clothes.

Haymitch keeps a spare key under a rock by his doorstep. It's a horrible choice for a hiding spot, but I doubt anyone would care to break in. The smell that emanates from the place is a major deterrent, so is the fact that he sleeps with a knife and has nothing of value except liquor.

The house is as dark and dusty as a dungeon. The grimy windows prevent much light from entering and it takes me awhile to gather myself in the gloom. As I venture in deeper and my sight adjusts, I see that he's sprawled out on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles. Typical. His rattling snores follow me as I quietly go up the stairs to his bedroom.

For someone who usually passes out wherever he happens to be, his room has been well used. The sheets have been thoroughly slept in and there are dirty clothes and trash lying in heaps on the floor. I go through his dresser from top to bottom to find that all the drawers are empty, save for a few sad mothballs. His closet fares better. There, I discover several shirts and trousers neatly hung up. Effie probably had something to do with this before she left. In any case, he won't miss them.

In mid-motion of prying a shirt from a hanger I suddenly freeze. It started off as a mindless thought but now I'm staring at the dark gleaming buttons, feeling like a wind-up toy that's lost its energy. 'How many shirts will he need?' translates to 'How permanent will this be?'. His life may be spared, but what about after he heals? At once I'm reminded of Prim and her bleeding heart. Her most memorable charity endeavor is still an annoying whiskered fixture in our home. I shudder to think what will happen if she gets her say in this.

Another round of cacophonous snores from downstairs gives me an idea. Even though he's hardly reliable or lucid most of time, Haymitch could give some valuable advice on what we should do with him. With his knowledge of the Games and the added bonus of his disagreeable personality, I'm sure this will play out in my favor. I find a piece of parchment and pen and scribble a short note.

_Come over as soon as you wake up. It's important._

I leave it where he'll see it; under a half-empty bottle of rum on the kitchen counter. When I emerge outside with the bundle of clothes, the sun is shining weakly in the pale pink sky.

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**A/n:** This chapter was pretty tricky to write. I'm a little concerned that Katniss' reaction was a bit extreme and dark, but I hope it shows how shell-shocked she is from her experience and that accepting him won't be easy. As you can tell, the romance will be quite awhile off, but it'll be worth the wait, I promise!

- Chiisana inori


	3. Chapter 3

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**K. POV**

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It's noon when I return to the room. I gingerly close the door, careful not to wake him, and sit in a wicker chair that's been pushed up next to the bed. For the first time today, or ever really, we are alone.

He's propped up by pillows, bandaged, and dressed in one of Haymitch's white dress shirts, which hangs loose on him. Cleaned up, he looks better than before. The color has returned to his face and he's relaxed, not tensed up from the pain. Mother said that he's got mild heat exhaustion, bruised ribs, and a badly infected cut but he'll live. I don't know what he's been through or how many miles he wandered before Gale found him, but at the moment he rests soundly, aided by a sedative.

A muffled din trickles from the kitchen, snatching up my attention. I recall the flash of discomfort in Prim's eyes when I said that I would watch him while she helped mother clean up after breakfast. It still stings and I'm determined to be on my best behavior. To prove it to myself, I take a small towel and soak it in a basin of ice water sitting on the nightstand. As I wring it, the excess drops ping noisily on the water's surface like rain.

It reminds me of sickness, more specifically, when I was younger; when medicine was too expensive to afford and the supply of home remedies dried up. Sometimes it was all we had; something cold to soothe a hot brow and the gentle motion of fingers combing through hair. It was enough. The constant vigilance of my parents at my bedside throughout the night, trying to draw out the fever and whispering reassurances had always resonated in me as a simple and unwavering act of tenderness. But when I think about the last time I did this for someone, the sound becomes poisoned. This isn't the first time it's happened. Nowadays, the smallest thought and the most innocuous detail can send me flashing back.

The details of the cave envelop me like creeping ivy: the dank, mossy tasting air, reverberating echoes, and cold hard ground. I can almost see Peeta's fever-bright eyes glimmering in the dark and feel the leaden fear coiling up in my stomach thinking he would die this way. With or without the cameras, it was real concern that kept me up all night, desperately trying to help the only way I knew how. Ending up here and going through the same motions with this particular man is a farce but I bite back any feeling of dissent. There is no affection or pity, only a hardened resolve as I place the damp cloth over his forehead.

Tentatively, I wait for him to respond; for his eyes to flicker open as they did before. When they remain motionless, I stare at his dark lashes and bruised eyelids still; mulling over what lies behind them. If I didn't recognize him, I would have went on believing that he was a stranger and cared for him with no strings attached, no buzz of conflict swarming my brain. He would have woken up and if he caught on quickly, played along. It's a tempting alternative. Ignorance is bliss and he doesn't need my emotions to muddle things up. Unlucky about those eyes, I guess.

It's strange because blue eyes aren't out of the ordinary here. In District Twelve, you either have a flinty grey or deep cornflower blue color without much variation in between. Living in my small bubble, I never realized just how broad the spectrum of colors for the human eye was. In comparison to Prim's or mother's or Peeta's, his are alien in comparison; almost electric in their incandescence. A part of me wonders if they are truly that special or if it's just my memory romanticizing them.

I first noticed him on the third day of training, when I was sent to the gymnasium to be observed individually and scored. He was with the other Gamemakers on the viewing balcony, laughing and drinking. Out of all the men there, I knew that his opinion was the most important as soon as I walked in. "Watch out for the man in black and red," Haymitch had warned me. "He's the Head. Make a good impression on him and you're set, but he has the power to destroy you in the arena if he's so inclined."

I was surprised by how young he looked next to his wrinkly, white-haired companions, so much that I thought I was mistaken. I stole another furtive glance while I retrieved my bow and arrows from the weapons stand. He certainly carried himself like he was important; all broad shoulders and pointy smiles. I felt annoyed then; here was the man who had my fate in his hands and he was nothing more but another pretentious, puffed-up Capitolian.

And then there was the stupid stunt with the apple.

There were about a dozen people up in that balcony but we immediately locked eyes. His gaze, the color of frost, scorched like hot coals. He looked dangerous in his fury; more than capable of pressing a button to kill me in a most awful way. I left with my insides in knots, sure that my demonstration had both ruined my chances for a sponsor and earned the ire of a Head Gamemaker.

And yet with all that worrying, it didn't come to that. I always thought my near-perfect score after that disaster would be a mystery for the rest of my life. It won't be for longer, though. He'll have to wake up sometime. The thought sends me sinking deeper into my chair.

During the Games, there were moments where I could almost sense his gaze on me. Though I knew he was looking through the hidden cameras just as everyone else, his subtle presence was deadly; a hidden danger ready to spring. Even now that I'm far from his domain and he's been rendered harmless, there's a residual fear there, like flinching from flames after getting burned. My skin crawls at the thought of his searing blue eyes on me once more; not filtered through glass or contained in dreams and memories, but directly. I take comfort in knowing that this anxiety won't last for long. The sooner I wash my hands clean of him, the better.

I stay like that; slouched, legs stretched out, arms draped over my stomach. As the minutes drag on, it becomes a struggle to keep my eyes open and my chin from nodding into my chest. With the chaos this morning, I haven't had the time to slow down until now. The exhaustion is hitting me all at once. Despite frayed nerves and a hazy sense of duty to keep an eye on him, the lulling sound of his cadenced breaths slowly sends me off to sleep.

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The next thing I know, I'm blinking away the bright light and automatically lurching up in the chair. It was not a good position to sleep in. Parts of my body are either numb or twinging unpleasantly. I see that Prim is in the room. She's standing on the other side of the bed holding a syringe, poised to inject him. With her spun-gold hair and pink skin backlit by the afternoon sun, she looks even more angelic than usual.

"Sorry. Did I wake you?" she whispers, looking concerned.

I fumble for a coherent string of thought. "I was supposed to watch him," I mumble instead, my mouth feeling full of cotton.

"Don't worry about it. He's fine. You need your rest anyway."

He doesn't seem fine to me. His sleep is fitful; he's shivering and sweating and grimacing. I could never handle someone else's discomfort without feeling extremely discomforted but Prim is a professional. I watch as the needle punctures his skin, the clear liquid in the glass barrel dwindling down. In a matter of seconds, he crumples back like a marionette with severed strings. I feel an odd sense of relief as well.

"How long was I asleep?" I ask after she finishes taping back the bandage into place and rolling his sleeve down.

"Nearly an hour…" She pauses to fix a crease in the bedspread. Her head lifts up to look at me and there's a soft furrow there too, right between her eyebrows. "Haymitch is here."

"Oh." Now that she mentions it, I can hear his clipped, rough voice low in the background. I rub away an ache radiating in my neck. I'm nervous that she might question me on bringing him here but she doesn't.

"They were talking for a while," she says worriedly. "About him. They wouldn't let me listen. Maybe you should go out there and see what's going on."

This surprises me. Prim is far from a child. She does the work of an adult and is treated like one. I can't help but hope that they sent her away so they could quietly discuss how to dispose of him. I get up to my feet. "I'll be back," I tell her. When I leave, I avoid looking at either of them.

The hushed conversation in the dining room is put on pause as they glance up at my arrival. Haymitch's eyes are bloodshot and he looks unkempt as usual, but he manages to grin. "Mornin', sweetheart."

"Haymitch," I address stiffly. I take a seat at the head of the table, between him and my mother. The way they look at me, I feel like I'm about to be lectured on something.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" mother asks finally. "I just brewed a pot."

I nod. Once she's disappeared into the kitchen, I turn to Haymitch. "So, you've been informed?" It comes out blunter than I intended but now is not the time to beat around the bush.

"That the Head Gamemaker of the 74th Games is currently wearing my clothes and sleeping in your guest bedroom? Yes. Unless there's anything else I should know," he says wryly.

I let out a dry sound, in between a scoff and a chuckle and the tension eases a notch. Leave it to Haymitch to be completely blasé at a time like this. "Consider yourself informed."

"As much as I appreciate being in the loop of things, I'm curious to know why you called me here," he remarks, looking into his mug with a bit of distaste. I imagine he's wishing for something a lot stronger than tea. "I'm not exactly qualified to be a nurse if that's what you're thinking."

"No. Things are... taken care of at the moment." I can't help myself; I cast a side-long glance behind me at the room where he's resting and wonder if Prim is listening in. I continue on tenuously. "It's after he's done healing. We need to figure out what to do with him, and soon."

"Eager to get rid of him?"

"Do you blame me?" I sit back in the chair and frown. "This is serious. The longer he stays here, the more of a liability he becomes. Given who he is, it's not like he's welcome here in the first place."

He stares at me for a second and then shakes his head. "There are worse men than Crane."

Mother returns with a cup of steaming hot tea and places it before me. Even though my mouth is still dry, I can't seem to find the energy to drink from it. Never would I have thought that Haymitch; grumpy, incorrigible, indifferent Haymitch of all people, would come to a Gamemaker's defense. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

He shrugs in a matter-of-fact way. "Trust me sweetheart, he's not as bad as you make him out to be. With what's going on, it wouldn't be wise to jump the gun on..."

"There are limits," I interject. "I've done as much as I can. I don't owe him anything."

"You forget, it was his decision to change the rules and let you and Peeta win together."

My hands curl into fists but I keep them planted on the table. "You forget, there was only one winner in the end. If Peeta had survived, do you really think he would have kept his promise?"

Haymitch smirks, as if the answer is obvious and I'm too dumb to see it. "He's here for a reason, isn't he?"

"Don't do that." My voice is little more than a growl but I assumed just as much. The last thing I need is to feel sorry for Seneca Crane and have him on my conscience, already weighed down by so many others. "We're in enough trouble saving his life. What do you think the Capitol will do if they find out that we're harboring a fugitive? Someone they thought was already put to death?"

My mother looks alarmed, as if the thought never crossed her mind. "Is that true? Are we in great danger?"

"Yes and no." He gives me a look. "Katniss is right. There are higher-ups out there who would be none too pleased. As of now, however, Crane is believed to be disposed of. It should stay that way. If we're too hasty and careless, the whole thing will unravel and we'll all be worse off. A few months of lying low here, where he's not recognized, and he's as good as forgotten."

I feel myself seething but keep my tone measured. "You say that we should keep him safe here but what will we do with him once the intrigue dies down?"

"Someone like him must have connections outside of the Capitol," mother suggests quietly. "Perhaps we can arrange something?"

"Don't tell me he's gotten to you already." I look at her, incredulous, and wonder what things Haymitch filled her head with while I was out. "You're willing to lay down your life, all our lives, for some stranger?"

The indecision on her face is visible. For a passing moment, I'm almost certain she'll back down but she surprises me, however meek her protest is. "Like Haymitch said, he tried to help you and he was punished for it." Her fingers twine and untwine together, a nervous habit that Prim also shares. "We can't just kick him out," she says. "It isn't right."

But Haymitch waves his hand at her words, as if he's had a change of heart and is shooing away any opposition. "Fine, then. You win. You hardly need my blessing to do what you will with him, sweetheart. You want options? Here they are." He begins to tick them off his fingers one by one. "Dump him back in the woods and forget this ever happened. Send him on his merry way to the Capitol so that they can get the job done right. Reveal his identity to the entire District and turn him over to an angry mob. The choice is yours."

I hate a lot of things, but Haymitch being right is up there on top of the list.

With gritted teeth, I stare hard at the wood grain patterns in the table. As outlandishly horrible as the options are, it's true. Nothing else viable comes to mind. Nothing else would preserve his life or my humanity. Nothing else would keep Prim's heart from breaking. There's only that one thing. It's not the most practical option. In fact it's downright deadly with both the Capitol and my own District out for his blood. Not to mention living under the same roof with the one person who embodies everything I'm trying to run away from is too awful to even fathom.

But as completely absurd it is, with all the logic to refute it and knowledge of the misery to come, something inside me relents; a hidden scrap of pity that I can't ignore. I wonder if it was the same for Seneca Crane when he decided to change the rules of the game and effectively seal his fate. Isn't that how it goes?_ An eye for an eye. A life for a life. A stupid decision for a stupid decision._

"Then he stays. For now." The words come up bitter but I feel better after saying it, like being purged of bile. It's only when I'm halfway back to the guest room that I realize I was quick to fold; ready to be convinced. I'm tired of the guilt. This could be atonement for everything I've done. Maybe instead of destroying a life, I can save one.

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**A/n: **Apologies for the delay! I was sick for a few days and didn't get to write, so here's an extra long update to compensate.

I'm sorry if this chapter felt a bit too introspective and meandering, but I needed to explore some more issues to set the ground work for the upcoming action. I also thought the rationalizing in keeping him hidden in their home needed to be dealt with before anything else happened. It was a bit sticky trying to keep the argument convincing so I hope it made sense. In any case, the story will most definitely pick up in the next chapter.

Thank you to those who reviewed! I appreciate any sort of feedback from readers. :)

-Chiisana inori


	4. Chapter 4

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**K. POV**

* * *

As the pot simmers on the stove, I lean against the table's edge and close my eyes. The last few days have been busier than I'm used to since I've been home. If I sit, I'm sure I'll fall asleep. I start pacing up and down the spacious kitchen to keep myself alert, stopping once in a while to stir the pot.

With the house silent and the others in asleep their beds, the world seems frozen in time. It's a terribly lonely feeling. Usually I would stay in my room until the sun rose before I started the day, but early mornings have a sense of purpose now. Even with my narrow set of skills, I couldn't stand to sulk while there was work to be done.

This didn't go unnoticed by everyone else. My late father didn't lovingly call me 'the most hard-headed creature to roam the earth' for nothing. I had definitely earned it; always breaking rules and pushing boundaries, never knowing when to back down. To my mother's everlasting exasperation, I haven't outgrown it yet. From illegal hunting in the woods to volunteering for the Games, my tenacity has kept my family alive and fed, but most times it gets me into trouble. I do have my limits, though. After that emotionally draining first day, I've put all my energy into being productive instead of brooding. It's easy to be passive when it doesn't feel quite real yet.

As of now, he's in what's called a twilight trance. The painkillers we have access to are not of the same caliber as Morphling. It's less expensive, weaker, and fraught with side effects but just as addictive. It's also put him in a state where he can physically wake up for pieces at a time without full consciousness of his surroundings. As the days pass, it's been used more sparingly and in turn, he's begun stay awake longer and soon he will be himself again.

His fleeting moments of wakefulness may keep things uncomplicated on a personal level but it makes caring for him difficult. We take shifts watching him in the day, making sure he's comfortable with enough water to drink and an extra dose of sedative to quiet him down if he needs it. I'm surprised by how completely dependent he is but mother explained that it will take some time for him to recover. He's from the Capitol and has never had the chance to experience real illness and pain. Because he's gone so long without medical attention and our resources are practically archaic in comparison to what he's used to, it's been a shock to his system trying to cope with so much at once. I suspect the real coping will begin once he wakes to our drab life here in Twelve, devoid of any Capitol comforts like fancy clothes and platters heaped with delicacies.

It'll happen sooner rather than later. Last night, he gained full awareness, albeit for a short amount of time.

It was after dinner. Prim had finished eating and went in to check on him. After clearing the plates, I was about to go in to help when I heard an unfamiliar voice that stopped me dead in my tracks. That was the first I had ever heard him speak and it was a strange, disused rasp that made me think of cobwebs and rusted metal. "Where am I?"

I flattened my back against the wall, continuing to listen.

"You're in District Twelve," Prim told him, her voice soft and gentle. "Don't worry, you're safe here."

There was a long pause. I half-expected him to deny or challenge her statement, but instead he asked, "Who are you?"

"Primrose, but everyone calls me Prim."

"Prim," he repeated. And then he became silent. Heart thudding, I waited for a few minutes before going in cautiously. He was fast asleep but it didn't seem to bother my sister.

"He's getting better," she announced happily.

I'm dreading his impending lucidity, when he fully becomes the sharp-eyed and cruel man I know. I'm not sure why I'm afraid looking him in the eye, of finding the right words to say when he has no power over me here. For having gone through so much, it seems like such a trivial thing to fixate on.

In any case, I should be more concerned with keeping a tight lid on the situation. So far we've been lucky and only those who are already aware of it have been around. Haymitch comes often, not to help, but to amuse himself I think. And to make sure I haven't poisoned him or anything, even though I adamantly told him I'd do nothing of the sort. Gale visited once. He didn't ask about the person currently residing a few feet away but wanted to know if I would join him on a hunting excursion. I don't think I'm mentally prepared to be in the woods so soon after the Games, but I forced a smile and accepted because I feel like I owe it to him.

I put all of that aside for a moment; the kitchen clock tells me it's time to check the bubbling pot. My cooking skills have much to be desired but his meals are supposed to be bland and soggy, easy on the stomach. I can do that extremely well. I sample a little for a taste and decide that it'll do.

It's still early so I take the time to clean up the kitchen while the stew rests. Keeping busy is better than being idle and alone with troublesome thoughts. I scrub down the countertop and plan on tackling the dirty dishes next. While I work, I sing softly under my breath; voiding my mind of everything except the getting the tiles to shine and the melody right.

In the middle of rinsing a carving board, I hear it; a definite creaking noise that cuts through the rushing water and my voice. I go quiet and strain to listen but the noise stops. The house is old and sometimes settles but I find myself unnerved and hurry to finish. I'm not yet accustomed to this strange, cavernous place. Alone and in the dark, its shadowed corners and strange noises seem especially menacing.

The second time I hear it I'm drying my hands on a dish towel. It sounds less like the foundation shifting and more like a heavy footfall. At once my skin prickles with alarm but I can't seem to move from my spot. I try to calm myself and reason that it's Prim or mother, up to get a drink of water. It's only when I can sense an unfamiliar presence in the room that a rising, panicky feeling fills up my lungs; smothering a scream. Fueled by my nightmares, I can only assume the worst. _Intruders. Tributes. Muttations. Snow._ My thoughts are in a mad whirl; irrational and uproarious like a rattled cage of birds.

Out the corner of my eye, I spot a knife on the drying rack. Instinctively, I reach over to wrap my fingers around the handle. I try to remember my training. Pulse pounding, I spin around, brandishing the small but sharp blade. I immediately zero in on the figure on the other side of the room. Seneca is half-leaning against the kitchen entryway; his pale eyes lit with a haunting clarity.

I've never been struck by lightning, but I imagine this is what it must feel like.

* * *

He isn't a monster of improbable proportions come to rip me to pieces but I can't seem to extinguish the slight undercurrent of distress in my relief.

For some reason, I didn't put two and two together. In that frenzied moment, it didn't cross my mind that it could be him, not while I believed he still had time to recover. I had already envisioned his awakening to be a slow but eventual affair; preferably in broad daylight with ample time for me to prepare a commanding presence and a set of choice words. It's just my luck that I've been caught off guard at this ungodly hour; a terrified mess.

He doesn't look any better than I do; stooped over and greatly rumpled. His expression is blank but I notice darkly circled eyes traveling between my face and the weapon I'm pointing to him. It's not the warmest welcome, I realize. I lower the knife; placing it with a clatter on the table between us. "You shouldn't be up," I tell him, grateful my voice is even and calm. My heart, however, is taking it's time in adjusting.

For a split second, I think I see a ghost of a smile on his lips. He moves to straighten up but seems to have miscalculated the strength in his legs or his grip on the door frame because he sways unsteadily before lurching forward. Without thinking, I rush over and he sags right into me. I buckle slightly under his weight. He catches himself in time, finding some balance. A low moan vibrates in my hair and I remember that I have his still-healing midsection in a clumsy embrace.

It's plenty awkward but I don't jump back or let go in fear that he'll tip right over. We stay that way for a lingering moment; pressed against each other so close I can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, my nose buried in his shirt. He smells familiar, like stones warmed by the sun and soap and starch. I've never been this close to a man before; not one that I haven't killed or kissed.

"I'll help you get back to bed," I manage to say. Somehow, I gather my wits enough to help him right himself up. I slide my arm around him and act as a crutch as we make our way to his room. My cheeks glow hotly. I don't know if I should be more embarrassed for accosting him with a knife or throwing myself at him.

The room is partly illuminated by the light spilling in from the kitchen. He winces as he sinks down on the edge of the bed. I try to think about what Prim would do in this situation and miserably fail at emulating her natural concern as I help him lower himself on the mattress. I scurry to the head of the bed to fix his pillows.

"Do you need anything? Another pillow? Pain medicine?" I feel like a puppet, completely detached from the words coming from my mouth and the movements of my hands.

He shakes his head; eyes tightly shut as he shifts around to get comfortable without magnifying the pain. For a shimmering hopeful moment, I think the subject will never come up and we've mutually submitted to a happy ignorance as strangers with no complicated history. But then he asks in a gravelly voice, "Why are you doing this?"

The answer that formulates in the silence evaporates before I can get my mouth open. If I speak, I know it'll sound terribly phony. The truth is, I've asked myself that question for days and each answer I've come up with never seems to be satisfactory. One thing I'm certain of is that there's so much I want to ask him; unanswered questions that would give me a greater peace of mind.

"Why did you change the rules?" It seems like a good place to start; the crux of matter.

He opens his eyes and looks at me. I don't feel a stab of fear, like I had anticipated. Maybe it's the warm yellowy light reflecting in his irises, or the way the shadows play on his face, but there's no trace of his former threatening self to be found. "I guess we'll never figure out why we do the things we do," he murmurs in reply.

* * *

**/**

**A/N:** Less sitting and thinking and more development from now on, I promise! Thanks for being so patient, people.

I've just depleted all of the chapters I had pre-written and stockpiled, but I hope to continue to update regularly. I have a rough outline about what will happen, but I wanted to ask, is there anything missing? Unresolved issues? A scene you would like to see in the future? Let me know! :)

-Chiisana inori


	5. Chapter 5

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**S. POV**

* * *

I am alive in District Twelve.

I mull over this information, take it in my hands and turn it over a few times. See how it catches the light and rings in my ears. It's unwieldy and strange and will take some time to get used to. I'm not even sure which part is harder to believe.

I don't remember how I got here, in this room with blue curtains and a faint antiseptic smell. The last solid memory I have of before is being escorted through heavy metal doors by two Peacekeepers. After that, everything runs together like a bad watercolor painting. Maybe it was a hit to the head. Maybe I just don't want to remember.

There are pieces that stick out sharply; small details that play on a loop whenever I close my eyes. The transparent beating blades of the copter. Being swallowed up by greenness and a thick blanket of heat. Walking, stumbling, then crawling; my shoes filled with blood. A mockingjay watching from above with pitiless black eyes, waiting to make a feast out of me.

Dead. I should be dead right now but they underestimated me. You would think they would be cleverer about disposing someone who has an intimate knowledge of the forest; a man whose career is built on the sole principles of survival.

I have the last laugh but I think I'll crack a rib if I try. The fact of the matter is that I, Seneca Crane, have done something irrevocably and undeniably stupid. Because of that, I have lost my reputation, my citizenship, and very nearly my own life. Which brings us back to the beginning. I am alive in District Twelve.

* * *

Before, I only heard voices babbling in the dark; fast and high pitched. Sometimes there were colors; whorls of yellows and blues and pinks that grew and shrank and curled in my vision. The only thing I could discern were sensations. Hands on me; poking, prodding, applying pressure. Cold water trickling in my mouth. Alternating states of pain and numbness. There's little relief in my clarity as I lie here, staring at the shadows as they shift and bow in the growing morning light. The reality of this unfamiliar bed, this room, this District, is even stranger than that disembodied black space.

Somewhere overhead, there are signs of life stirring awake. I can hear a shuffling movement across floorboards and water running. I tense up and wonder when she will return to this room.

A few hours earlier, I had snapped out of my daze. It was sudden and violent, like surfacing from icy deep waters and drawing a much needed breath of fresh air. Once I got a sense of my surroundings, I forced myself up. I ignored the pain that squeezed the air out of my lungs and the way the ground underneath me rocked with every step. I had a fixed goal: to follow the light and sound that seeped through the crack in the door. Just beyond my reach, someone was there with answers. I already knew of my crime and punishment. The fact that I woke up in a comfortable bed instead of rotting in a ditch was what mystified me; kept me going.

After so long without it, the bright light hit me with full force. It took a moment for the harsh intensity to subside, for the shapes to take form. Everything looked so crisp and colorful it was almost unreal. Dizzy from the stimuli and blood rushing from my head, I had to hang on to a doorframe to keep steady.

Just a few feet away, a woman was there; frozen in place with her back to me. Dark waves of hair, an exposed shell of an ear, shoulder blades rising in sharp arcs through a nightgown. That was my first impression of her.

Then she turned around swiftly; recoiling like a snake readying to strike.

Her fearful look turned reproachful. I noted the tightness along her jaw, the sound of the knife as it bounced on the table and stilled. I was convinced that I was having some sort of intricate dying hallucination. There was no other rational explanation for that fact that I was in Katniss Everdeen's kitchen. But once the space between us closed, it was evident she was very real; warmth and a heartbeat, flesh and bone. Instead of getting answers, my questions had multiplied tenfold.

She brought me back to the room. I finally got my tongue, teeth, and lips to function in tandem with my scattered thoughts and asked her why she was doing this.

"Why did you change the rules?" she asked in reply.

She left shortly after that, neither of us satisfied by what the other had to say. It was expected. We were both caught off guard and on edge. At least now I have a vague sense of why I'm here. A debt is being repaid, the extent of which surprises me. It's a generous second chance and I have my reservations. By the way she regarded me with pointed apprehension, I'm almost certain that this isn't of her own volition.

I must be on my guard; careful not to disturb the tenuous equilibrium here. Every link I have to my previous life has been severed, every bridge burned. I am completely powerless in this new territory but there's nowhere to go, no other option available. Surviving the woods was only a small victory compared to what will come next.

* * *

Nearly half an hour passes before the doorknob finally twists. A young girl in a white pinafore slips into the room. She's balancing a tray table in her hands. I know her face. It floated above mine in a rare moment of consciousness; spoke soothing words and smiled reassuringly. It was also the same face that featured on telescreens everywhere not too long ago; the almost-Tribute of District Twelve.

She gives a little start when she catches me staring at her. "You're awake! Really awake!" she exclaims, looking pleased.

"Prim?" A voice faintly calls from outside the room. "Is something wrong?" Footsteps. An older woman appears; her mother, judging by the matching blonde hair, blue eyes, and expression of surprise. "Gamemaker Crane," she says, visibly straightening up. "Good morning. It's nice to see you up."

I'm surprised by how humbly she addresses me. I've been stripped of my title, a title which outside of the Capitol would garner more disgust than respect. I shift to a higher sitting position, disregarding the white-hot pain crackling in my chest. "Seneca. Please, call me Seneca."

She ignores me with a wave of her hand and strides to the bed. "Easy, now. You're not on complete bed rest but you should avoid any sudden movements." She re-arranges the pillows behind me and adds another to keep me propped up. Then she does a rudimentary once-over; checking my pupils, peering at my bandages, taking my pulse. "How are you feeling today? Any nausea or dizziness?"

"I feel fine. Better than I could hope for." I pause for a moment, struggling to find the right words, and clear my throat. "Thank you. I don't know how I can repay you for everything you and your family have done for me…"

"Of course," she says with a tight smile, as if it's a paltry thing; a borrowed egg, a broken teacup. "I'm happy to help. Make yourself at home and don't worry about a thing."

She turns to Prim and becomes more business-like. "I'm going to the market to buy food and supplies for the week. You're in charge while Katniss is out. Give him breakfast and a small dose of pain reliever if he feels any discomfort. If he needs something more, brew some willow bark tea. I'll be back in an hour."

The girl nods seriously. When the woman leaves, she comes up and sets the tray down on my lap. I study it as if it's an alien thing. There's silverware on a napkin, a glass of water and a bowl of soup; chopped vegetables swimming in a clear broth. By all accounts I should be hungry but at the moment I can't bring myself to put anything in my stomach while it's clenched tight from nerves.

"Eat up," she encourages. "You need to build up your strength."

She looks so eager and expectant I can't find it in myself to refuse. I spoon a bit of the soup, chewing and swallowing without tasting it. It burns going down. I glance up, expecting her to leave once satisfied but she takes a seat in the chair by the bed, observing quietly with her hands folded on her knees. "Do you like it?"

"Yes. It's very good." I take another spoonful for show. "Did you make it?"

"Katniss did," she says brightly.

I drink some water to cool my mouth. I remember seeing a black pot on the stove this morning when we had our run in. Was that what she was doing so early? I picture her using the same knife she challenged me with to slice the carrots and potatoes and broccoli I'm currently staring down at. "I wouldn't have expected that."

"Oh yes." She smiles. "Cooking isn't her favorite thing to do but she helps however she can. She thought you would want to have a real meal now that you're better. For the past few days, all you've managed to eat was a little bit of porridge and some bread soaked in milk."

"Really?" I frown, trying to place it in the hazy cloud that fills my head. "I don't remember any of that."

She looks at me sympathetically. "It's the medicine. But now that you're going off of it, it won't be a problem anymore." She leans back in her chair. She's getting comfortable. Her bright blue eyes are still on me.

"Are you going to watch me eat the entire bowl?" I ask, amused.

"Mom said I was in charge," she replies firmly. "I have to be here to make sure you're okay."

I wonder how I would not be okay eating on my own and suddenly imagine myself passing out and accidentally drowning myself in this shallow pond of soup. It's morbid considering my close brush with death but I laugh. The surprising burst of sound dislodges the heavy feeling in my chest, relaxing me instantly. It also really hurts.

"You're going to make it worse," Prim scolds. Unlike her mother, she grins; not too deeply concerned.

"It's always worse before it gets better," I recite automatically. I don't remember where I've heard it from; a Capitol propaganda piece maybe. "But thank you for your concern." I stir the soup, the metal clinking against the bottom of the porcelain bowl. I don't have much will to lift it to my lips.

She watches me. "You really don't want to eat, huh?"

I shake my head. "My appetite just isn't here."

"How about this? For every bite you take, I'll answer any questions you might have," she proposes.

That piques my interest. "Fair enough." I take another mouthful, trying to work against my lack of hunger by thinking of it as fuel. I remind myself that it's better than whatever I ate to get by in the woods. "How did I get here?" I ask, once I get it down.

"Gale found you while he was out hunting. Katniss' friend," she clarifies when I look puzzled. "He's the one who brought you in."

"How long have I been here?"

"Four days."

"What kind of shape am I in right now?"

"Your ribs have almost healed up. The infection and most of your bruises are gone but you've gotten weak from the muscle and weight loss. It's nothing that can't be fixed."

"When can I start walking?"

"Whenever you like! As long as you have a little help, that is."

I tempted to ask about her sister's motives but I feel like it would dampen the mood. Instead, I narrow my eyes and ask jokingly. "Are you really related to Katniss?"

"Of course I am!" She giggles and it makes me even more dubious. They're polar opposites in the way the look and act. Perhaps age is a factor, as well as a lack of history between us, but Prim is warm, sweet, and trusting; not yet tarnished by reality. It's suddenly clear to me why Katniss sacrificed herself for her so readily.

The bowl is still half full when I put down the spoon in defeat. "I don't think I can eat another bite if I tried."

"That's all right. Your stomach's shrunk from not eating very much. Tell me when you get hungry again. There's a whole pot left." She takes the tray, putting the glass of water on the nightstand, and leaves momentarily. When she returns, she plops back down next to me. "Can I give the questions now?" she asks.

I find myself smiling a little at her sudden shyness. "Go ahead."

"When is your birthday?"

"February 25th."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"How long have been a Gamemaker?"

That requires a little more effort. My brows knit together as I try to do the math. "Uh, let's see… I started when I was twenty, interned for two years, worked as an official Gamemaker for seven, and got promoted to Head Gamemaker for three. So, twelve years in all."

"Twelve years," she marvels. "That's as old as I am!"

The finality of it hits me. My career had reached the lifespan of a child of Reaping age before it was cut short. The fact makes me feel old and the comparison makes me feel a little despicable.

"Anything else?" I ask.

She looks down and then back up. It seems like this particular question has weighed heavily on her mind. "Did they put you here because of Katniss?"

"'They'?" I repeat.

"You know. Those people." She stares at me hard and I realize where she's getting at. I'm a little taken aback.

"It's complicated," I say finally. "It was a decision I made that was seen as favoring toward District Twelve. No unapproved and unplanned changes can be made during the Games and above all, Gamemakers are supposed to be impartial. It's a regularly broken rule, but a rule nonetheless. I knew better but I did it anyway. I thought it would make things more interesting for the two star-crossed lovers to win."

Prim looks somber and I begin to wonder if it's because she's disappointed with my answer. She twists the hem of her skirt slowly before speaking. "When they announced the new rule, I felt happy. I wanted Katniss to win, but I also didn't want Peeta to lose. He was so nice and… and I think it was good for her. Katniss was sad after the little girl from District Eleven died. I don't know if she would have tried as hard to come back home if she didn't have hope."

"I think you're giving me too much credit," I tell her. "She's a strong girl. She would have won regardless of anything I did."

She smiles at me tentatively but I can see she's doubtful.

I hear noises outside; a door being opened and closed and heavy footsteps. "Looks like your mother finished her shopping early," I comment.

The bedroom door swings open. To my surprise, Katniss stalks in; her eyes fixed on me.

Prim turns in the chair and stares openly. "Where have you been all morning? Mom and I were worried. You really should have left a note…"

"You have to go," she says abruptly. For a sickening moment, I think she's addressing me. Her grey eyes are flat and forbidding, like clouds threatening rain. She turns her head a little and her gaze flicks over to her younger sister. "Mother found me in the marketplace and told me to relay the message. She's headed over to the Harper house right now. There's an emergency and she needs you to bring the black medical bag in her closet and assist."

"Oh, okay." Prim looks conflicted for a moment. "Will you stay here with him?" she asks, giving me a fleeting glance. "Mom said I was supposed to and if I'm not here…"

Katniss taps her shoulder lightly with her fingertips; a small, tender touch. Her voice softens. "I will. Hurry along, now."

Prim rises from the chair, flashes me a smile, says she'll be back later. And then she's gone and it's just the two of us. Somehow the room feels empty and suffocating all at once.

* * *

**/**

**A/n:** Sorry this took so long! I had written a chapter and halfway through, I decided to scrap it so I can change it to Seneca's perspective. It will pop up randomly in the story to keep things interesting. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

- Chiisana inori


	6. Chapter 6

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**S. POV**

* * *

My previous experience with Katniss Everdeen was limited to observation. Like the rest of Panem, I watched her volunteer at the Reaping, debut in the Parade, converse with Caesar Flickerman, and endure the Games. Unlike the rest of Panem, I did this not for recreation but a higher purpose; to study and test and study again. Through the omnipotent twenty-four hour surveillance in the Arena, I came to know her quite intimately. It was easy to commit to memory the way her graceful gait was quick to turn into a run, the familiar pendulum of her braid, the ease at which she would melt into one with a bow and arrow.

Yet none of that minutia gives me an advantage in this particular setting. I can't decipher her next move, nor strongly influence it. At the moment she's still and contemplative; considering the weight of a promise to her aversion for me.

I decide to risk the foreseeable stretch of pressing silence by breaking it. "You don't have to stay," I tell her.

Her lips purse slightly. "It's not like I have anything better to do." And so it's been decided. She hunkers down in the empty chair, composed and careful to distance herself from our last encounter. Her hair has been tamed into a thick braid that hangs down her shoulder and her clothes; a short-sleeved green shirt and black breeches, are stark and imposing. Even so, I can't help but recall her face flushing, the surprising softness and warmth in close proximity. Looks and monikers and pretenses can be misleading. It's conflicting to know that she smells sweet, like some unidentifiable flower.

She catches my eyes resting on her a fraction too long. "Is there something you want?" she asks, her voice a little sharp with surprise.

It's a loaded question. Perhaps my upbringing predisposes me to exaggerated desires but its painfully clear what I want; for this to be a nightmare. To wake up in my bed, with everything the way it was before I ruined myself. But because this isn't possible, I go for something simpler.

* * *

She returns with what I had asked for; something to read. It comes in the form of a bulky black tome that she carries tucked under one arm. I don't remember the last time I read for pleasure. Seeing as I'm no longer chained to a strict schedule to dictate my days, I might as well start now. It will offer escapism in more than one way; I expect a lack of awkwardness if I keep myself busy.

"I'm afraid I don't have a lot of books around here. This one's required reading for school," she says as she hands it to me.

"It'll do. Thank you." It's not the first time I've said it today but the words still feel clumsy on my tongue. I didn't say it often back when my expectations were met without a second thought. I understand that while I'm here on borrowed time I must be aptly grateful. I think about my ex-colleagues and subordinates and the perverse sense of pleasure they would feel if they could see me now, choking down humble pie.

She nods dismissively, her face a mask. Instead of sitting back in the chair, she wanders over to the window. The ledge juts out, just large enough for someone to sit comfortably. She does so, drawing her legs up close, and pushes the curtains aside to look out. It's a relief. I don't think I would be able to concentrate with her weighty gaze on me.

I look down to finally appraise the book. It's been passed through so many hands, the title has rubbed off the spine. I open it to find that it's an upper level anthology of short stories and poems; typical high school textbook fare. I settle into it quickly. Soon, the only sound that fills the air is the faint rustling of paper.

As I read, the homogenous and bleak themes become clear. The topics run from the Rebellion, to District home life, to the Hunger Games, each one darker than the last. President Snow selects the Outer District curriculum carefully and just as so, there are no hopeful pieces here; only an education in submission.

After slogging through pages and pages of this, it becomes exhausting. I'm not easily disturbed by any measure but I have a feeling I would react differently if I were reading this in my private office instead of on the other side of the fence. Being so far removed and yet so close to the subject is enough to call for a brief respite.

"Horrible, isn't it?"

I glance sideways to see her regarding me with mild interest.

"There were… a few interesting stories that I liked," I falter. Not a single one comes to mind.

Katniss shakes her head. "I've read it cover to cover. I know how it is." She gives a pause before saying carefully, "Tomorrow, I can go to find other books for you."

I'm surprised by the kind offer but I know better than to show it. I give a tactful nod and reply, "I would appreciate that."

"Is there anything else you want?" she asks stiffly. "To keep you sane while you're stuck in this room, I mean."

The answer comes to mind instantly; an old hobby of mine that had fallen on the wayside. "A sketch pad and a set of pencils, if it isn't too much trouble."

"It won't be any trouble." She twines the hem of her shirt idly. "Prim is better at entertaining company," she muses. "But seeing as she's always off to help mother, it would be better if you had something to do here."

"Where have they gone to, anyway?" I ask, curious. She had left abruptly without much explanation.

Katniss frowns a little but relents, answering, "They're assisting a difficult birth."

"So they're Healers." I don't know why I didn't figure it out already, by the looks of the room and the neatly dressed bandages peeking from my shirt. It wasn't common knowledge and first aid that put me back together.

She nods grimly. "Usually they're out on call for broken bones or fevers but this is different. I don't know when they'll be back. It's her first baby. It could take days."

It's not like I'm an expert of any aspect of childbirth, especially coming from a place where it's a simple and nearly painless procedure, but I try to reassure her. "They fixed me up, didn't they? Things are sure to go smoothly."

Her eyes connect with mine briefly before breaking away. There's a dark look on her face. "Even if it does, it's still another mouth to feed; another name in the Reaping Bowl."

The bitter words stun me at first. How could life be worse than death? Even after my ordeal, I would still choose to be alive here than buried in the Capitol. The chance to live is a prize to be fought over and won. It's a concept deeply embedded in my work but even I must concede that it isn't a hard and fast rule. Contrary evidence says otherwise- what I know of the Outer Districts, what the book still heavy on my lap took great lengths to delineate. Sympathy comes easy but empathy is much like that confusing semi-consciousness I was in. As much as I try to grasp at its edges, it goes shapeless and liquid in my hands.

Katniss pushes herself up suddenly, as if roused to change the subject. "You ought to get yourself cleaned up," she announces briskly, striding up to the other side of the bed. "There's a guest bathroom close by that you can use. I'll take you there."

Getting out of bed to stretch my legs sounds like a good idea but I'm not to thrilled about having an escort. "There's no need to trouble yourself," I hedge, conveniently disregarding my fantastic near-spill. "I'm sure I can handle it on my own."

She crosses her arms, unconvinced. "And risk you injuring yourself? My mother wouldn't let me hear the end of it."

There's no sense in going back in forth about it, so without further ado, I ease out of the bed. Maybe it's because I've shaken off the disorientation of just waking or the fact that I've eaten, but the room no longer tilts and there's more surety in my balance.

"After you," I say politely.

She makes a slight chuffing noise hard to distinguish between annoyance and amusement. Instead of propping herself against me as she did before, she guides me in sync with my dragging steps. Her fingers lightly rest on my elbow just in case I stumble. I feel a little embarrassed being accompanied like I'm a prisoner or invalid but mostly I try to ignore the steady pain radiating up my legs and across my chest with every movement.

I don't get to see much of the house; just a flash of the kitchen and a plain stretch of hallway before she steers me to a door on the right. The bathroom is more like a powder room. It's small, containing only a toilet, sink, and mirror, and is quite primitive. I can't remember the last time I saw a regular faucet with metal handles. At least it's clean. Thankfully, she doesn't go as far as joining me in this tight space. She stands by the door and tells me she'll be outside if I need her. I don't know if I have a basis for retaining any sort of modesty around her, but I'd rather pretend that I do and hope it doesn't change.

Aware that she's waiting, I finish my business quickly but when I begin to wash my hands, I slow down; keeping my eyes glued to the working lather and steady jet of hot water. I feel vague dread at seeing if I look as horrible as I feel. Once I finish rinsing, I finally get the nerve to face my reflection.

A stranger with shadowed eyes and sunken cheeks glares back at me. His beard is patchy with uneven growth and the rest of his hair is long and disheveled. There are yellow tinted smudges here and there; bruises in the late stages of healing.

I look like a mad man. No; worse- - disgrace personified. A residual sense of vanity grips me. It's absurd to even have it as a priority in this time and place but I find I'm deeply set in my indoctrinated ways of grooming and hygiene.

I feel around the sides of the mirror until I find a small clasp that I'm able to pop open. The mirror swings back on hinges to reveal a cabinet stocked with toiletries; a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, tissues, and various soaps and scents. To my disappointment, there is no razor to be found so I reluctantly move on to other pressing issues. I brush my teeth until my mouth burns with the minty taste and drag the wetted comb through my hair with hard strokes. I splash some water on my face and grab a towel to scrub myself dry. The wrinkles in my shirt are smoothed out and the collar is adjusted before I give myself another critical inspection in the mirror. Despite my efforts, I'm only marginally less untidy than before. I still look mad, but more like a mad version of me.

When I emerge, I'm fully prepared to have her annoyed at me for taking so long. Instead, she sees me and immediately goes into hard lines; her shoulders and back stiffen; even her lips are pressed together tight. It's a visceral reaction that leaves me puzzled.

"What is it? You did say to get cleaned up, didn't you?" I ask lightly.

"It's nothing," she says shortly, looking away. "Let's go."

* * *

She sitting at the window's edge; arms looped around her knees, fingers hooked together. She's looking out again. The room is completely silent. Up until this point, I assumed that we were on steady ground. There was due caution exercised of course, but it was better than I had anticipated; bordering on cordial. Somehow, that's been undone.

That's the thing about her. Even in the Arena, I had a hard time figuring her out. At a quick glance, it was clear to me and everyone else that she was a survivor, skilled for her background and dedicated to her sister. Peel that back, and what was there? A mystery. Unlike the other Tributes who wore every motive and emotion on their sleeve, she was careful to keep her true self hidden from the cameras. There were glimpses of the real Katniss that intrigued me; her impudent little display at the scoring for one, but nothing I could really draw upon. The Hunger Games are just as psychological as they are physical. Without a clear sense of a Tribute, it's difficult to successfully elicit certain reactions or manipulate events.

It's what drew me in then but now I find it terribly frustrating.

"About this morning, I didn't mean to frighten you," I say suddenly, breaking the lull. She twists around, startled. A little maneuvering might get me out of this fix. If I don't know what I did to disturb her so greatly, then the least I can do is apologize for misconduct I'm aware of.

"I know it wasn't on purpose. I would've done the same, if I woke up in some strange place. And ... maybe I overreacted." she admits a little sheepishly after a pause. "Grabbing the knife was a bit reckless, I guess."

It's a start in the right direction; an even playing field. Emboldened, I press even further. "Your reflexes were quite impressive, actually. I'm lucky you didn't throw the knife or else I wouldn't be here."

Her gaze rapidly turns cool. "Maybe not. You must have me confused for Clove, from District Two. She was particularly skilled with knives."

I'm too floored to do anything but blink. It's that split-second of trepidation when waiting for pain to be realized, but dragged out thin and long. Despite trying to avoid it all morning, the past is out in the open, present like a gaping wound and just as welcome. It doesn't matter if what I said was horribly misconstrued or that it seemed like I was judging her once more; the time to rebut has come and gone. It's strange; I don't usually make this kind of mistake. In my old social circles, I was well-known for my silver tongue and could charm even the most churlish of patrons. Now I'm incapable of opening my mouth without offending a teenage girl. Things have oddly become high school-like.

Just when I think we're trapped in this uncomfortable stalemate, she says in a slightly less severe tone, "I've already made up my mind, you know. As long as you're here you're safe. Even from me."

"As long as I'm here?" I repeat, as if my hearing has betrayed me. "I'm staying indefinitely?"

"I should have explained it to you before," she mutters to herself before re-addressing me in a clear voice. "Yes, you are. Surprised?"

"Surprised would be an understatement." I'm trying to make sense of this. Then I realize that there's nothing stopping me from asking. "And how did you come to this decision?"

"Does it even matter?" She looks immensely peeved but her voice is leveled. "It's what's best, okay? If no one knows you're here, then no one will be looking for you. Everything will work out for everyone."

It's overly simplified but I don't go any further with it. "Is there a plan?" I ask.

She shoots me a withering glare. "The plan is for you to stay in this room until there's a plan."

"Miss Everdeen-"

"I think we're past formalities, don't you?"

"_Katniss_," I say. Aloud, it sounds strange, like 'thank you'. "Will this be a problem?"

"It's been discussed. It won't be a problem if we keep quiet and no one suspects anything. People keep to themselves here and it's not as if they can pick you out of a lineup."

"No, I mean..."

"I know what you mean." She studies me intently. "We can't go on pretending it never happened, right? You were a Gamemaker, I was a Tribute. There. It was all in the past and it should stay that way." It comes out smoothly, as if it's been well-practiced.

It doesn't make any sense to me. Being a Gamemaker has made up such a large part of me, just like being a Tribute has shaped her. Its how our paths crossed and re-crossed and we are inescapably tied to those titles whether we like it or not. "It's not something that will be easy to get over," I say.

"I'll have to, if it means keeping a peaceful house. I may be difficult at times but it doesn't change that things are different now." She pins me with those shrewd, unwavering eyes of hers. "You've gone through more than enough. You're not here for me to punish."

After feeling like I've held in my breath all day, I exhale. "I understand."

"Good. Then you can stop looking at me like I'm going to smother you with a pillow at any moment. It's not going to happen. Not even if you beg." She fiddles with the brushy end of her braid, effectively ending the conversation and ignoring me again.

I slump back into the pillows, feeling the resistance in my muscles uncoil. For the first time since I've stepped foot in District Twelve, I have a sense of security. And perhaps just as important, a breakthrough with Katniss. Now that we're on the same page, the days following should be easier, less tense. I can't see us becoming friends any time soon, but at least I don't have to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Without meaning to, I glean it and file it away; a small and unassuming piece of information. It seems to me like I haven't stopped working to piece together the puzzle. There's no reason for it now, but it makes me smile just the slightest to know; the real Katniss has a dark sense of humor.

* * *

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**A/n:** I really love writing in Seneca's voice. I realize it takes away some of the mystery but it also opens up a new perspective. In any case, I promise not to reveal too much before due time!

About this chapter, after spending so much time on Katniss' doubts, I thought it would be better if things were settled to where she would be civil and he would feel less like he didn't have to walk on eggshells around her all the time. It will still be dramatic and tense at times, but on a more understated level. Now the real fun can begin. :)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially Guests who I couldn't PM back personally. I really appreciate it!

- Chiisana inori


	7. Chapter 7

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**K. POV**

* * *

Gale is waiting for me in the Meadow. There's a hitch in my breath when I first catch sight of him. The rising sun lights his dark hair ablaze and outlines the rest of him in gold. For a fleeting moment, it's like I'm looking through another's eyes. I don't see the hunting companion, the ally, the boy I've known since I was twelve; I see what the girls at school whisper about through stolen glances. Seventeen and I'm only now figuring this out. In any case, it means little; I blink and the sun's tricks dissipate. It's Gale, just Gale.

"Am I late?" I ask casually as I draw nearer.

"No. I'm just early." His mouth twitches into a smile.

It's been a month since we last did this but we fall into an easy pace, side by side, like it's always been. As much as I want it to last, the good mood shifts once we slip through the metal fence and delve in deep, where the sounds of the waking town grow muffled and the sun is hidden away somewhere above the thick canopy. The trees begin to feel too densely packed together; claustrophobic. I'm looking for invisible cameras and sinister faces. I'm waiting to hear a cannon's boom.

Gale softly bumps his hand against mine, snapping me out of my daze. I manage a smile. As close as we are, we've never expressed any sort of open affection, not including the hug goodbye right before I left for the Capitol. Instead, when I'm feeling sad or angry he does that little brush and as our skin connects, it's like he's telling me he's on my side, that things will be better.

"It's good to have you back, Catnip," he says.

* * *

Before doing any hunting, we stop by our spot the rock ledge for breakfast. I've brought my leather knapsack and filled it to the brim with fruit, bread, and cheese. It isn't fancy but compared to our past meals here, it's a feast fit for a king.

"That's a lot for just the two of us," he says as he surveys the impressive spread.

I settle down next to him and pick up a cheese bun. "That's because the rest is going home with you."

He doesn't say anything, just takes an apple and bites into it. He would have taken care of my family if I didn't make it out alive, but now that I'm back, he hasn't exactly warmed up to the idea of gifts of food and supplies. He's proud and stubborn, just like I am, and sees it as more of a handout than a gesture of friendship.

"Come on, Gale," I prod. "I even got blueberries, Posy's favorite."

He looks at the food again; this time as if it's been soured with maggots. "And goat cheese for Vick and muffins for Rory. I know."

"Then why don't you make their day and bring it to them as a treat?"

He sighs and shoots me a wary glance. "Fine. Just this once."

I don't try to argue. If anything, I could always go and give his mother whatever they need. Gale Hawthorne isn't the boss of me.

"How are the kids doing?" I ask, changing the subject. "I haven't seen them since that day at the train station."

"Growing up too fast. Rory's been asking me to take him to the woods sometime; show him how to hunt."

"What's wrong with that? He's about the same age I was when I started."

His lips draw into a half-smile, as if he's remembering the scrawny little girl I once was. "Yeah, but he doesn't have half of your nerves of steel. I don't think he'd be able to clean a kill without fainting."

"Have a little faith. Maybe he'll have some of his brother's natural talent. You never know." I pop the last bite of bread into my mouth.

"Right." He pauses to take a swig of water from a canteen. "It's not like I have much of a choice, anyway. Once I become nineteen, I won't be able to come out here as much. He'll have to take my place."

The little food I've eaten sits like a hard lump in my stomach. Though it's a relief to have Gale safe from the Reaping Ball in a few months' time, a life sentence in the mines isn't much better. I don't know what I would do if I lost him like I lost my father.

We both go silent, aware that this will probably be one of the last times we'll get to do this. Gale doesn't try to comfort me because he knows it's pointless. Even though we never got to be children in a conventional sense, we had a bit of freedom on this unfenced land; hunting and gathering and just being together. The thought of becoming adults and diverging on different life paths is slightly terrifying. Gale will work and marry and have kids but my future is shrouded in a thick fog. The only thing I know for sure is that I'll become a Mentor like Haymitch. It's nothing to look forward to.

"You know what?" he asks suddenly.

My eyes are cast down at the ground as I pick at my shoelaces. "What?"

"I always considered this place to be ours. It'll feel weird sharing it with someone else."

I'm glad I can't see his expression now. The words are enough to knock my thoughts into a useless tangle.

* * *

When we finish eating, I grab my hunting gear. I feel a sense of completion with a quiver full of arrows slung over my back and my father's bow in my hand. Although it's worn and old-fashioned, I'd pick it over the Capitol's sleek model any day.

Gale and I walk in silence, careful not to scare away any game. I'm hoping to keep a clear head. It's nothing like the Arena, I tell myself as I look around. There's no charged air, no eerie stillness. I have Gale by my side. I'm safe.

It isn't long before I see a pheasant lurking up ahead, dappled in the shadows. It's a female with dull brown feathers, but the meat alone would make it a worthy prize. Automatically, I unsheathe an arrow and slide it into the nock. I crook my arm, pulling the string back, and fluidly raise the bow. Without breathing, I take aim, one eye shuttered and the other focused.

I know before I even let go that it's a definite kill shot. It would have gone down cleanly, if not for a loud ringing in my head that makes me freeze. This setting, this posture, the adrenaline spurs a memory and makes cold sweat collect like dew on my skin. I see the whites of eyes, bloody froth on lips, sputtering, trembling for air. All because of an arrow. My arrow.

Agitated, I release the string. The arrow lashes out crookedly, striking a tree trunk and causing the bird to flee into the bushes in a noisy flutter. I lower my arm and allow myself to breathe again, sharp and shaky. I feel like I've been swallowed up and then spit right out.

"What's wrong?" Gale asks, sounding confused.

I break off a twig from a tree and twirl it between my fingers before flicking it away. I'm numb all over. "I'm just having a bad day."

Realization dawns on Gale's face. "I'm an idiot," he groans.

"You're an idiot for plenty of reasons, but not that." Just as quick as it came on, the moment passes. I'm beginning to calm down. The pheasant would have made a good dinner for his family and I'm more angry than embarrassed at myself for losing it.

"You don't need to be here, not after coming from the Games," he mutters to himself. "I just wanted things to be like they were, you know?" His pained look makes _me_ feel guilty. I knew it was bound to happen and I could have easily said no but I didn't. Maybe I wanted things to go back to normal too.

"No need to treat me like a delicate flower." I lightly punch him in the shoulder to reassure him. "It's not like I'm going to give up going here and hunting. I need time, that's all. Let's go check the snares."

"Are you sure? We can go home, if you want."

"Yeah. I'm sure." I look around at the quiet beauty and serenity of the forest. "They can't take this place from me. I won't let them."

We continue on without another word. The traps aren't especially bountiful today but we do find a good-sized rabbit for stewing and a fox whose pelt will fetch a nice price. Gale bags them both while I watch.

As we walk, I'm lost to my own thoughts; mostly trying to figure out what to say to make things normal between us again. My steps are mechanical and I'm not mindful of my surroundings, which is why I nearly crash into Gale's back when he unexpectedly stops dead in his tracks. "What is it?" I ask, searching for any sign of danger or prey in the trees.

"Over there." He points off into the distance, to a nondescript patch of ground. "That's where I found him."

Seneca. I stare at the spot. It looks perfectly innocent for something that has changed everything so drastically.

Gale starts to walk in the other direction, breaking the moment. "Let's get going. We still have three more to check."

I follow him, thinking he's dropped the subject entirely. Not much time lapses before he looks over and asks tentatively, "What's going to happen to him, anyway?"

I feel uncomfortable but there's no reason to keep anything from him. "There's not much to do to do except put him up here until we find a permanent place for him to stay."

Gale looks at me blankly. The last he knew, I was up in arms. He wasn't around for the deliberations that took place. I'm sure he's more than confused about the extreme change of heart.

"I've thought a lot about that day." He shakes his head. "Wishing it went different. I could have slept in, or ignored the snares for another time. I didn't have to go check out whatever it was I thought I saw. I didn't even have to bring him to you."

"But it happened and that can't be changed," I say firmly.

"If I had known who he was..." His jaw tenses and his brows knit together in a frown.

"He's not… he isn't what you think." We've stopped walking. My words are like a vacuum, sucking every trace of amity in the air. I was trying to be diplomatic but it was a stupid move. Not only does it sound like I'm taking sides, but it's the wrong side.

"How would you know?" he asks. His tone is challenging.

"Because I was with him yesterday." I look him right in the eye, determined to stay steadfast. "He's as human as you or me."

"That's one day," he says acidly. "It doesn't tell you anything or change what he did."

"Gale-" I'm cut off.

"How could you show mercy to the person who put you though that hell?" He sounds exactly like me just a few days ago, blind with anger. I'm afraid to listen and believe; to relapse. "I didn't even _live _it and I can't stand the thought of having him still alive..."

"My hands are tied," I say sharply. "I told you before, this is for everyone's sake; not just his."

"There are ways of dealing with vermin." His grey eyes are as hard as flints and just as cold. "Don't be naïve, Katniss. If he hadn't been exiled, he would have kept playing his twisted games. Capitol people are all the same."

Gale storms off without a single backward glance. I stand there, too stunned to move. Just as quickly as I had gotten him back, I've lost him.

* * *

The argument still gnaws at me long after I return to Twelve's boundary lines. I've seen him upset and we've had our fair share of tiffs through the years, but never on this scale. His hatred for the Capitol runs deep and it isn't until I've gotten a taste of that poison that it's begun to unnerve me.

He forgot to take the knapsack so I head over to Hazelle's to drop it off and see if I can talk some sense into him. As it turns out, he hasn't returned yet but his mother gratefully takes the food off of my hands and tells me that he'll cool off sooner or later. There's nothing left for me to do except run my errands and hope it'll take my mind off of things, even if those errands happen to deal with the root of it all.

The Hob doesn't sell luxury items like books and fancy drawing paper, so I'm forced to take my shopping elsewhere. I've passed by the Merchant specialty stores many times but I've never been inside one. Here, the roads are cobbled with sun-bleached stones. It's clean and bright and full of respectable-looking people milling about, window shopping or chatting at corners. It's far enough from the mines and the Seam that things don't seem as bad; normal almost.

I wish I had the foresight to bring a fresh change of clothes. My hunting outfit is going to make me stick out like a sore thumb, although I know whatever looks I get won't be from my appearance alone. It's strange knowing that everyone in the country has seen you at your very worst.

There's only one place that sells art supplies. It's small, squeezed between an antiques store and a candy shop, and painted robin's egg blue. I'm a little nervous going in but as I soon find out, the shopkeeper is very welcoming. She shakes my hand twice and congratulates me on my victory. "I never thought I'd live to see two winners from Twelve," she says excitedly.

I'm more than relieved when she takes the time to help me make my selections. As if the different types of pencils weren't confusing enough, paper comes in several mediums and weights and sizes. In the end, I choose charcoal pencils (good for sketching, so she says) and a matching book with specially made pages.

The shopkeeper rings up my purchases. It's not the first time I've bought something with my Game winnings but after a lifetime of trading and bartering, it will be awhile before I get used to paying with an unlimited supply of coins. It's one of the rare moments where I'm convinced that if I had the chance, I would do it all over again.

I go over to the bookstore next. I've been to Madge's house and have seen the Mayor's extensive library but this place is different; overwhelming with its aisles and aisles of bookshelves stretched up to the ceiling. My head swims from the pervasive smell of paper and glue and leather binding. It's unusually rich, like fine furs or chocolates.

I don't know his preferences but was clear he didn't enjoy my literature book so I skip the non-fiction section altogether. I fill up my basket with a bit of every other genre; mystery, drama, romance, and science-fiction and hope that he can find something he likes.

The last stop I make is at a clothing boutique. I wasn't planning on going inside until I had passed it and realized that Haymitch probably wants his clothes back and just as well, Seneca needs something of his own to wear. The window of the shop showcases a family of blank-faced mannequins dressed in the latest District styles. It's about a hundred years outdated compared to Capitol fashion but still a lot better than that mystery bin of ugly dyed cotton and itchy wool over at the Hob.

When I open the front door, I'm hit by a blast of cool air and the smell of clean linen. I tread in quietly, scanning the room. It's filled with metal racks stuffed with clothes and there are bolts of fabric shelved on the walls. No one else is here except for a girl sitting behind a counter. Her face is obscured by a newspaper and she doesn't bother to look up or say anything, even as I close the door and the chiming bells announcing my arrival go silent.

I bypass the frilly dresses and skirts, cleaving my way into the men's section where the colors are darker, more muted. My fingers trail over the different colored sleeves of every kind of material without much thought. I've never bought clothing for a man before, not even for my father when he was alive. I don't know where to begin or what to look for. Blindly, I select a navy blue button-down shirt and tug it off the hanger. I hold it out by an arms' length and try to envision him wearing it.

Seeing him in Haymitch's ill-fitting clothes for the past few days does little to erase my mind's image of him; well-groomed and dressed in a smartly tailored suit. I'm not so different from Gale in this way. Its difficult reconciling these two people; the intimidating Capitol version of Seneca Crane and this scruffy Seneca Crane who has interests outside of the Games and is strangely polite given the circumstances. I can't help but think that it would be much easier if he was the brute I had assumed he was. Then I would be justified to act however I want instead of standing here, musing over a shirt. The swift 180 degree turn has me dizzy.

Having Cinna here would be incredibly helpful now. I can talk to him about anything. He knows the right thing to say and all there is about complementary colors and flattering clothing. Me, I'm not even sure if this will be a good fit on him. Maybe if I try it in relation to my size? Grasping it by the cuffs on each end and stretching it out, I lay the shirt against me and glance in the mirror that's propped up against the wall. It dwarfs my figure completely and falls mid-thigh. I try to summon the details of that moment in the kitchen yesterday morning; the margins of his torso, the width of his shoulders, the span of his arms. Things I briefly familiarized myself with.

"Can I help you with something?" Jolted from my daydream, I spin around. Sylvie Speck is watching me from behind the counter. She's a Merchant girl a few years older than I am. I don't know her very well but I have seen her around a few times, slumming it in the Seam to flirt and drink with the locals. I'm not normally one to be envious, but she really is beautiful; tall with curly ash blonde hair and big blue eyes. I bet she even cries pretty.

"If it isn't _the_ Katniss Everdeen!" Recognition sparks from beneath her heavily fringed lashes. She sits up straighter on her stool, pushing the newspaper away. "Fancy seeing you here!"

"Yeah, well…" I stand there awkwardly. We've never spoken before and I'm not sure what else to say.

She grins at me, eyes flicking up and down. "Surely you don't miss dressing like a boy after getting to wear all of those gorgeous Capitol dresses?"

I impulsively look down. I'm wearing my father's old hunting jacket and on top of that, still holding that dress shirt against me. I feel like an idiot. "It's not for me it's for… Haymitch," I say quickly, dropping my arms.

"Haymitch Abernathy?" Her nose wrinkles in disgust. I take a wild guess and assume that she's been on the receiving end of his drunken overtures once or twice.

"The one and only."

"He sends you out to do his shopping?"

"I do it as more of a favor." This part is true. A handful of times, I've bought over food and liquor to keep his cupboards adequately stocked, or gone over to check and make sure he's still breathing. It's the least I can do.

Figuring that I have nothing interesting to say, she switches into business-mode. "Do you know his measurements? I can help you find something that'll fit."

"I don't, actually," I say, trying not to sound as ignorant as I feel. Measurements. That's a little more complicated than I bargained for. I guess if I'm going to buy something for the sole purpose of having it fit nicely, I should wait until I can do it right. I return the shirt back to its spot on the rack and mentally map an exit.

"Well, he can make an appointment to come in for something specially tailored, if he that's what he's looking for..."

"No, it's fine. He's sort of busy at the moment." My voice sounds a little weird. I bend down to pick up my bags. "I'll come back later with his measurements. It's not a problem."

"Okay. Sure." Her demeanor remains cheerful but I can tell she thinks I'm odd. "Tell Gale I said hi, won't you?"

"I will," I reply as I leave, flashing a fake smile. If Gale will ever speak to me again, that is.

I go straight home. It's only mid-afternoon but after such a tiring day, I'm looking forward to sleeping off my problems.

As I approach Victor's Village, I see another figure in the distance coming up to my house. My heart does a nervous judder and I hurry my steps. Once I get closer, I see that it's only Haymitch. He notices me too and pauses, waiting at the door.

"Busy morning?" he asks when I finally come to a stop in front of him. He glances at the swinging shopping bags I have in each hand. "I guess you didn't have time to check the mail."

"What is it?" Before he can answer, I see it for myself. He's holding a thick cream-colored envelope with a shiny gold seal on the front. My heart ices over with apprehension. It's the Capitol's seal.

* * *

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**A/n:** Wow, I'm so pleased with all the wonderful responses I got from the last chapter! Thanks so much for your support! It inspired me to write this extra quick. :)

Just a few things of note:

I've gone back and edited the older chapters. Nothing major, I just tweaked some of the wording so that it flows better and changed tiny details. I do this every once in a while since I always seem to catch a new mistake when I re-read.

Now that summer is winding down, I won't be able to update as often. I'll try to work as much as I can on it because I have big and exciting things planned. It might be a slow-boil, but I hope you guys enjoy what it builds up to!

- Chiisana inori


	8. Chapter 8

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**S. POV**

* * *

It's 7:00 AM. I know this even though there is no clock and the curtains are drawn, simply because I'm awake. Over the years, my lifestyle has created a few biological adjustments: a high tolerance for alcohol, cognitive function on little food or sleep, the ability to commit horrible acts without as much as a shudder. Just to name a few.

Because old habits cannot be as easily shed as status, I'm unable to return to sleep immediately. I lie in bed, eyes closed to ward off the faint light as I listen to the early morning noise. The penthouse apartment I used to live in had customizable options; instrumental music, white static, ocean sounds. Anything imaginable could be selected and filtered from the speakers in the hidden alcoves. It's a little disconcerting with the organic noises that ebb and flow in the quiet now; crickets, birds, a distant clanging of metal, and the occasional creak or rattling of pipes. Every waking moment is a reminder of my inelegant transplantation here; how poorly acquainted I am to this environment. Even the air tastes different.

Mourning for what I've lost seems self-indulgent, and I say this as a Capitol citizen. The truth is; I've left little behind.

The apartment did not belong to me; it's issued out to the current Head Gamemaker every year. Because I was often away at the office or traveling, it was mostly used for sleep and storage. In that vein, I had nice things; high-tech gadgets, rare paintings, expensive clothes, and the like. I don't particularly pine for them now. My great grandfather's pocket watch was the only belonging of mine with sentimental value. I don't know if I lost it back in the Capitol or in the woods but its long gone now.

Loyal companions are hard to come by in my profession. There are always hidden agendas to watch for, backstabbers and false flatterers underfoot. I'm fortunate to have a few good friends; trusted people whom I will genuinely miss. As for a significant other, there is none; not currently anyway. In fact, I'm almost certain that my string of ex-girlfriends will gather to organize a party in honor of my comeuppance, for I was a far more attentive Gamemaker than I ever was a suitor.

There are no living relatives left to 'bury me' or inherit the things I've accumulated. My parents have been dead for quite some time now and for that I'm glad. They don't deserve to live with the shame of their only son.

And then there are the more intangible things; the vices and pleasures. I would be lying if I said I didn't care for any of it. The perks of Capitol life were gratifying and addictive; glossing over the minute cracks that seem so glaringly obvious now. I can't help but wonder when my life became so empty. I had everything and I had nothing at all.

As if to distract me, I suddenly pick up the muffled sound of footsteps treading down the hall. Instead of pausing, the steps continue until they recede, punctuated by the opening and closing of a door. It must be Katniss.

* * *

I don't remember falling back asleep, but when I awaken for a second time, the sunlight is strong and more sounds have been added to the morning symphony; clinking, sizzling, scuffing shoes, and murmuring voices. It takes me a moment to piece it together in my sleep-shrouded haze; Prim and her mother must have returned to the house while I was asleep.

Carefully, I pull myself up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I sit like that for a moment; feet planted on the floor, hands gripping the edge as I wait for the blossoming ache in my chest to pass. It's secondary to the new pangs that attack me now. Hunger; far more intense than I've ever experienced it. Yesterday's lack of interest in food is a distant memory as I rise to follow the tantalizing smells.

The kitchen is aglow with the warm yellow tones of late morning light. Mrs. Everdeen is standing in front of the stove, scrambling eggs. Prim is balancing on tiptoes to fetch plates and glasses from a high-up cupboard. There's a vase of freshly cut daisies perched on the window sill and the dark wood furniture is polished to a shine. It's like a scene plucked right out of charming old painting. I suppose that's why I'm unable to move past the threshold. It's not that I prefer my usual solitary breakfast of coffee; this is just another reminder that I don't belong here.

While I'm debating a silent retreat back, Prim spots me. "Good morning," she greets cheerfully. "I was going to wake you for breakfast. Come have a seat."

It's a warm invitation but I shuffle in, feeling as ungainly and incongruous as ever.

Mrs. Everdeen glances over, smiling slightly before shifting her gaze back to the skillet. "Your mobility is improving nicely, I see."

"Slowly but surely," I reply as I sink into the first chair I can get to. Although I still feel like I've aged forty years every time I move, I note a slight difference from yesterday. Its odd healing at this snail's pace, the way nature intended.

"Did you sleep well?" asks Prim as she pours me a mug of tea. "We tried to be quiet when we got in last night. Here- some willow bark tea. It's bitter so I've added honey to sweeten it."

"Thanks." I cup my hand around the warmed ceramic and take a long draft of the tea. It circulates a relaxing heat into my veins. "I slept fine. I didn't hear you two at all. Katniss explained why you left. I hope things went well?"

She lights up at the mention. "It was touch and go for a while, but both mother and baby are fine. They've named him Max and he's as healthy and cute as can be."

"Glad to hear it." I don't think my smile is as convincing as it could be, knowing that a slip of paper with _Max Harper_ will be added to the Reaping Bowl in twelve years. Given my former position, the age-old national decree shouldn't bother me but Katniss' words still prove to be disconcerting.

Mrs. Everdeen sets down a plate in front of me and any other concern I have melts away for the time being. I go from being hungry to downright famished. Eggs, bacon, and sausage - it smells and looks delicious. I'm tempted to start shoveling food in my mouth at that very instant. Long-practiced decorum, however, tells me to abstain.

"It looks fantastic, Mrs. Everdeen," I compliment. Sleeping in and waking up to a real breakfast… If I didn't know any better, this would be like a vacation.

She hastily wipes her hand on her apron before offering it to me. "Daphne. I'm sorry I didn't get to properly introduce myself yesterday." Her hand is cool and narrow in mine.

"Daphne," I repeat, thinking for a moment. "Primrose. Katniss. Just as lovely as their namesakes, I see." When she blushes, I'm reassured that whatever happened with Katniss the day before was a fluke.

She brings over two more plates and then returns with a pitcher. It looks like it will be just the three of us this morning, but I ask anyway. "Katniss isn't joining us?"

"No, she's out hunting in the woods with Gale and won't be back till noon," answers her mother as she pours orange juice into two tall glasses.

"He's the one who brought me here." I muse aloud, recalling the name from yesterday. "I need to thank him in person sometime." It was a casual comment but the two Everdeens exchange looks. "…Is there something I should know?" I ask.

"It would be better if Katniss relays the message for you," Daphne says carefully as she sets down the pitcher. At once, I understand. Anti-Capitol sentiment runs deep in these parts.

Once everyone is seated, I wait for their cue before picking up my own fork and knife. I'm well-versed in the art of dinner party protocol but this relaxed and casual dining environment is quite new to me. They engage in some idle chat about District news while I listen and concentrate on keeping a steady pace between every fastidious cut and chew. Although I manage to avoid any hallmarks of rudeness, my enthusiasm does not go unnoticed.

"No bribing for today?" teases Prim as I reach for a slice of toast from the breadbasket and generously slather it with raspberry jam.

"Bribing?" Daphne arches a questioning brow in my direction.

"Yesterday, your clever daughter traded answers to my questions for every spoonful of soup I ate," I explain. "Though I need no such coercion now that my appetite has returned."

"Well, take care not to overdo it," she says, amused. "The last thing you need right now is a stomach ache."

I chuckle. "I'll keep that in mind. No promises, however."

I'm nothing short of adaptable when the situation calls for it, but so far, this has been surprisingly effortless. Perhaps a domestic setting isn't as far-fetched for me as I thought.

* * *

Once we've finished eating, I attempt to take the dishes to the sink but Daphne shoos me away.

"You should go and rest," she argues good-naturedly as she swiftly takes the stack of plates from my reach and carries them off. "Leave this to me."

I amble after her. "I insist. It's the least I can do for the excellent meal."

She turns her head and smiles wryly. Though she's definitely Prim's mother, I see a flash of Katniss in her just now. "I don't think you've washed a dish in your life, Seneca Crane."

I clear my throat, ill-concealing a grin of my own "That may or may not be true…"

Her smile fades, replaced by a vague look of concern. "It's kind of you to offer, but you should return to the room before Katniss comes home."

I think about the discussion from yesterday, about staying put until they figure out what to do with me. I'm not very inconspicuous in this open space with all of its windows and the front door a stone's throw away. "Right."

"Please don't think we're trying to be cruel," she says worriedly. "We have guests coming by at all hours; deliverymen, gardeners, people seeking medical treatment. It would be very easy for you to be spotted."

I'm surprised by her concern. Coming from a place where every deed is spurred by returns and dividends, being given refuge and kind treatment when I have nothing to offer is more than I can comprehend. "It's perfectly fine," I assure her. "I know what has to be done."

Daphne sighs. "I wish there was a better way to do this. You shouldn't be isolated in that room all day."

"I'll keep him company," Prim offers, pausing in her work wiping the table clean. "When I'm not busy helping you, that is." As different as the sisters are, I see that they share a common stubbornness in goodwill. I can't say I'm not grateful for her suggestion. I would go mad if I was stuck in a room with no one to see or talk to.

Once she's done cleaning, we go back to the room together. The door is slightly ajar; I must have forgotten to close it completely. I don't think much of it until I see that an unfamiliar cat has taken up residence on the bed. With a dingy coat, squashed nose, and torn ear, it bears only the faintest resemblance to its genetically perfected brethren in the Capitol.

"Buttercup!" Prim admonishes in a playful voice. "This isn't your bed, you silly cat!"

Another flower reference, but this one is a stretch. Buttercup merely regards her with mustard colored eyes; tail swishing.

She tries to lift him up but he squirms out of her grasp and lands back among the bed covers. He collapses on his haunches and gives an affronted look, as if daring her for another attempt. Prim turns to me with a sigh. "Sorry. He's still getting used to the place and can be a little territorial."

"That's all right. I don't mind having a bed mate." Despite the obvious lack of cuddliness in the mangy cat, I decide to take a risk. I reach over, proffering my hand as a gesture of amity. He leans forward to investigate it; nose and whiskers tickling. Once he's satisfied in getting to know me, I gently stroke the top of his head all the way to the little curvatures of his ears. He doesn't stir from his spot but his blinks become long and languid until eventually his eyes close in bliss.

"How did you do that?" asks Prim, clearly impressed. "He's never been so affectionate with a stranger before."

"Really? He seems like a big old kitten to me." I stop petting him and he gives me a baleful look. Like mold or some equally infectious thing, he's starting to grow on me.

She giggles and shakes her head. "Katniss would have to disagree."

"They don't get along?" I'm surprised to hear that. I would have thought a catlike girl (aloof, cagey, with highly attuned reflexes) would share a natural affinity with cats. Even her name suggests as much.

"Well, they tolerate each other now, but it used to be worse." Prim plays with Buttercup's paw, pretending to shake it. "It started when I brought him home. We couldn't afford a cat; a sick one at that, and things got a little messy before Katniss agreed to let me keep him. She still has scars from where he scratched her and his memory is pretty good, but I think their relationship has improved. Sometimes she feeds him the entrails of her catches."

I seat myself on the bed and run my hand down the length of Buttercup's spine. He winds up against me in response. I think I'm beginning to understand the source of our immediate rapport. We make up an exclusive club of unwanted vagrants that vex Katniss Everdeen. Needless to say, I don't think I have any hope of graduating to the level of 'entrails'. My sins can't be as easily forgiven.

"You handle him so well," observes Prim. "Have you ever had a cat?"

"No, I was hardly ever home, so having a high maintenance pet like a cat or dog would be disastrous," I muse. "I did have an aquarium, though. It took up an entire wall and was filled with all sorts of exotic fish. It was self-cleaning and feeding, so I didn't have to do any work."

She tilts her head a little, as if trying to imagine it. "Fish... as pets?"

"Well, yes. Did you think I would eat them?" I laugh.

Her forehead crinkles and I realize I hit the nail right on the head. "That's what fish are for."

I see her standpoint. Here, a pet would be something of a luxury and keeping one that didn't offer companionship or useful skills would be frivolous. "I suppose it's a little strange, now that I think about it," I reply. "The kind I had weren't fit for consumption, though. They're small and probably don't taste very good."

"Do they do anything special?"

I can't help but smile at her wonderment. Unfortunately, Capitol technology can only do so much, and making fish more interesting isn't one of them. "No, they just swim around and look pretty. Watching them is supposed to be therapeutic."

Prim grins. "Buttercup would like to do that."

"Wouldn't he?" I pat him on the back.

Buttercup suddenly goes as taut as piano wire; his ears pressed flat against his head. For a second, I think it's something I've done, until I notice that he's staring straight at the door.

Haymitch Abernathy walks in; a stricken Katniss trailing after him.

* * *

The Second Quarter Quell is one of my favorite Games. Its perfect combination of whimsical and deadly was what first spawned my interest in Gamemaking. Although my work is much more subtle in comparison, I would sometimes review the tapes whenever my inspiration ran low.

Try as one might to replicate the magic of a past Arena, there's no way to recapture interesting Tributes; the quite literal life blood of a Game. Such is the case with Haymitch, the dark horse from District Twelve. He made that particular Game what it was; enthralling to the last second, divisive among fans. That was then. Nowadays people can't seem to mention his name without a derisive snicker in the same breath. He's notorious for his perpetual inebriation and apathy towards his Mentees, but remembering the Tribute he once was kept me from joining the collective disdain for him.

Even so, we're not friends by any means. We've been in the same room only a handful of times and exchanged greetings in passing, but nothing more. That's what makes me uncertain about his presence now. Although I have Katniss' cautiously extended trust and protection, his intentions could take precedence and topple everything in the seconds.

"Prim, can you wait outside while we talk?" asks Katniss. I know that look. I had seen it in the Arena, whenever she was facing a setback and struggling to keep calm. It makes me even more uneasy now.

"Okay." Prim glances at me briefly before she starts for the door. Buttercup, sensing the tension brewing in the air as animals do, leaps from the bed and follows closely at her heels. The door shuts behind them with the sound of finality.

Once they're gone, I rise to my feet and extend my hand. "It's good to see you, Haymitch." Regardless of what he's here for, there's no need to forgo propriety.

"Crane." His handshake is firm. "You've got cat hair on my shirt," he deadpans as he lets go.

I'm taken aback for a second and glance downward to brush off the yellow hairs that cling to fabric. "I'm sorry about that. The cat was getting a little friendly."

I take a moment to assess him fully. Without that shrill, tiny Escort of his nagging about pressed shirts and combed hair, he's sunken into the comforts of the off-season. He looks like he's just woken and crawled out of bed, still in the midst of a hangover.

"Well," he mulls as he sizes me up with an equally critical eye, "I can't say this 'District look' is very becoming of you."

I allow myself to be a little optimistic. Maybe his joking is a good sign.

Katniss is not as amused. "Let's get on with it," she says shortly. "You know I hate being kept in the dark."

He rolls his eyes. "Patience, sweetheart. Can't I have an adult conversation without you butting in? If it was such terrible news, you think they'd send some blanket-issued letter instead of a troop of Peacekeepers?"

Even with his assurances, the mere mention of 'troop of Peacekeepers' has me as nervous as Katniss. "I'm sorry, but what's going on?"

"This came in the mail today." He holds out an envelope signed, stamped, and delivered from the Capitol.

Seeing the gold eagle insignia does a curious thing to my windpipe, but since my mouth is dry, all I swallow is air. I take it from him. The envelope has already been slit open from the side, so I shake it until a folded sheet of stationery slips into my waiting palm. I open it up and begin to scan the words.

"Out loud," Katniss orders quietly.

I clear my throat and start to read.

.

**/-/-/-/**

_To the Victors, _

_Another spectacular Hunger season has come and gone. The 74th Games will no doubt be remembered as one of the most exciting events in history. Unfortunately, celebrations here in the Capitol have been bittersweet. It saddens me to inform you that due to unforeseen complications, Seneca Crane will not be returning as Head Gamemaker for the highly anticipated Third Quarter Quell. I believe that his final contribution is the perfect ending to his short but remarkable career. His legacy will live on and continue to inspire new generations of Gamemakers._

_Plutarch Heavensbee, a seasoned veteran of twenty years, has been appointed to take his place. His exceptional dedication and talent have made him a worthy choice in the eyes of the Committee and myself. I trust he will be given nothing but warm welcomes and best wishes for the upcoming season. _

_I look forward to seeing you next year for the Quell. _

_- President Coriolanus Snow_

**_/-/-/-/_**

.

I knew it was just a matter of time before this happened, but seeing it in ink, plain as day, is different. No amount of mental preparation could keep my blood from going cold.

"Well?" asks Haymitch, after a short silence.

Katniss frowns at him. "I don't understand. It's just a retirement announcement."

"It's implied that I've been executed," I say. I fold the note and slide it back into the envelope before letting it drop on the bed. "It would be unseemly to say it outright and include all of the gory details." I add when she looks confused.

"But it's so vague," she murmurs.

"The information here is watered down to keep up appearances but I've been made an example of in the Capitol, I'm sure."

"Why send this out to the Victors?"

"To keep the controversy contained. Victors make up a group existing in-between the Outer Districts and the Capitol. It's better to read an official statement than to hear it from the gossip mill and have potentially harmful information spread," I explain.

She furrows her brows. "You know a lot about this."

"I'm hardly the first to go through it."

"Enough questions. Look at the bigger picture, will ya?" grouses Haymitch. "They think he's dead. We can take action now. It doesn't mean we have room to be careless, but now that everyone knows what's happened, I can keep my eyes and ears open for any sympathizers willing to help out."

"You got me worried for nothing." She glares at him in annoyance. "This is good news, isn't it? We're getting closer in finding him a secure place."

"Only _if_ we get any takers." He points to me. "I'm gonna need a list of your friends; _true_ friends. No social climbers who'd rat out their own mothers if they had the chance. The further removed from the Capitol, the better."

"Yes, I'll get right on that," I affirm. I feel a slight sense of relief. Things don't look as bleak with a distinct plan.

He studies me. "You know, this sort of thing can't be rushed; forging a new identity, setting up a place in another District, transporting you there. It's going to take time."

I nod. "I'm willing to wait as long as it takes."

"Good. I hope your patience keeps up for the next few months, then. Now, if you'll excuse me, I haven't had a damn drink all day and I'm planning on fixing that." He trudges out of the room without another word.

"Haymitch…" Katniss mutters under her breath with disgust. She doesn't stop him.

The envelope is still lying on the bed, out-of-place against the plain blue coverlet. I let my finger glide over the raised seal. I never pictured my career ending like this, with banishment and imposed death. Managing to elude the fate of similar defamed Gamemakers is even more puzzling.

"Must be tough." I look up, surprised to see she's standing there and watching me, her arms crossed over her chest. "It's not every day you get read your own obituary," she says.

Despite it all, my mouth crooks into a half-smile. "Are you trying to console me, Katniss?"

She averts her eyes, going silent.

I pick up the envelope, debating whether or not I should rip it to pieces. I end up tossing it whole in the wastebasket. I can't explain why, but I feel like it would be a shame to purposefully ruin such nice paper.

""You look so… calm. Aren't you the least bit angry?" she asks after a pause.

"Maybe I was before, in the woods. I don't remember much of what happened while I was there, but I couldn't have been too thrilled."

"And now?"

"Now I'm just glad I'm alive."

Katniss shakes her head in disbelief. "I would be angry; angry enough to go over and give Snow a piece of my mind for that stupid, condescending letter."

I laugh dryly. "Not all of us are as brave as you are."

"No, not brave. Dumb and temperamental, maybe."

The way she says it, casually, self-deprecatingly, reminds me of someone. And then I realize it. For my entire career, I strove for the perfect Game; my very own 'Second Quarter Quell'. A near impossible task, but I set myself to it.

In retrospect, my first two attempts were no better or cleverer than my last. But, as Snow himself said, it was a grand finale; something for the history books. It was because of her; the magic factor. I knew it all along but didn't piece it together until now. She's another Haymitch, lightning in a bottle. I just happened to have the simultaneous fortune and misfortune to come across her.

She suddenly flicks her eyes to the door, as if remembering something. "Give me a second. I'll be back." When she returns, she's carrying two shopping bags.

"These are for you." She puts them down on the bed. "I wasn't sure what you liked but I did my best."

I look down and catch a glimpse of bound paper. Books. A lot of them. And my addendum of art supplies as well. It surprises me, even though I never doubted she would turn on her word. She's not that type of person.

Confinement doesn't seem so bad now.

"Thank you, Katniss." I find that the words aren't as clumsy and awkward the second time around.

"I'm just doing my part," she answers coolly. She turns to stride out, but at the very last moment pauses by the door. "The next few months… they won't be so bad."

As I watch her retreat into the hallway, I wonder which one of us she was trying to reassure.

* * *

**/**

**A/n:**

Inspiration: 'The Cosmonaut' by Fall on Your Sword.

These chapters keep getting longer and longer! I had fun with this one, even though it was challenging to nail down. It took a lot of sighing and staring at a blank screen before anything happened.

The re-hashing of the same day but through different perspectives was only for this chapter, just so you know. (If I did that all the time, this would take forever to finish!) I hope the glacial pace isn't too bothersome for you guys. It will definitely pick up soon with a lot more romantic interaction. I just wanted to take the time to set up some platonic relationships first. Thank you for your continued patience and encouragement!

- Chiisana inori


	9. Chapter 9

**/**

**K. POV**

* * *

Gale used to joke that I'm all calluses except for a single soft spot reserved for Prim. I could scowl or roll my eyes but we both knew it was true. She's my little duck; bright and lovely and far too good for this world. I've wanted to make her happy since the day she was born. I think I loved her even before that.

This is important to her. _He_ is important to her. He's won them over so effortlessly it's almost maddening. My sister, my mother… even that damn hateful cat has taken a liking to him. Though my initial hostility has since dissolved, I'm too tangled up in his past to fall under that spell.

By some means of his charm or her generosity, Prim has decided to spend time with him. Apparently, food and shelter are not enough for a person to subsist on alone. "He isn't a houseplant that can be left in a corner," she explains, even when I try to tell her that I've supplied him with plenty of diversions while he's on his own.

She doesn't ask and I don't offer, but after a day or two of this, I join them. It isn't out the goodness of my heart, as she must assume while she cheerfully ushers me in. It's selfish and petty, but if being with Prim means having him around too, then so be it.

* * *

The unexpected sound of laughter is what finally draws my attention from the book I'm reading, or at least, pretending to read.

Unsure of how to fit in with their easy camaraderie, I've isolated myself to the window seat. Though I would like nothing more than to firmly keep him out of sight and out of mind, jealousy is what brought me here and an underlying anxiety keeps me rooted in place. I can't shake off the image of what could have been. Prim was close to being a Tribute; a victim of his.

This doesn't seem to bother her in the least. At the moment she's curled up comfortably in the wicker chair; chin propped up and one leg dangled from the edge. Her trusting nature is easily her best and worst trait. I never thought my worrying would have to extend from stray dogs to ex-Gamemakers.

While I'm wary enough for the both of us, I keep it well hidden. I'm able to share the same space as him without cringing, speak to him without faltering, and meet his gaze without shying away. I refuse to let him see how much he affects me and so far, I've had little difficulty. I suppose it's because I look at him with the same eyes I use to survey the woods while on the hunt; alert and calculating, stripped of emotion. But as curiosity finally overcomes me, I stare openly in his distraction.

He's stronger now; able to sit up on the bed on his own, and the bruises have finally faded. Rest, a new set of clothes, and regular meals have brought him a long way from the stranger that showed up on my doorstep. But all of this is obvious from a passing glance. Like the way I notice a certain slant of light in the calm moments of my forest expeditions, the details I've shut out become readily apparent.

The discomfort is almost as immediate. I had thought it twice before. The first was after my evaluation. The second was when I had laid eyes on who I believed to be a stranger. And now I feel three times the fool to admit; he's handsome.

I had never been one for such girlish inclinations; always too uninterested, too preoccupied, too hungry to care about what boys looked like. Maybe it was also out of self-preservation. Hanging around Gale, I saw it often; how girls would be reduced to starry eyes and needful sighs at the smallest provocation. As far as I'm concerned, there is nothing dignified about expressing attraction.

_Attraction. _The word makes me recoil in disgust. It doesn't sound right at all, even within the confines of my thoughts. I banish it away.

There's something else that tugs unpleasantly at my awareness, something I can't quite pinpoint. He's speaking now; hands gesturing, lips moving, but I don't register the sound. My brow works into a knit as I try to determine what it is that disturbs me.

"Katniss," Prim calls suddenly. I flick my gaze to her lightning-quick, almost guiltily. "You're not going to sit there by yourself all day, are you?"

In my periphery, I can see him staring at me; feel the weight of it. I wonder if I had been as obvious just moments ago. A light flush crawls across my skin but I work to keep my face empty. "It's a good book."

She doesn't question my sudden interest in reading after years of indifference. Instead, she beckons me over to where she sits. "You should join us. We were trading our own stories about District Twelve and the Capitol." Her face brightens with a smile. "I've learned so much already. Is it really as strange and wonderful as Seneca makes it sound?"

A nervous lump forms in my throat. I don't know where to begin or how to answer. The Capitol had been a disconcerting place; as alluring and foul as a cake laced with poison. With its taste still bitter on my tongue, I'm hesitant in dredging it up.

"It's… like another planet," I murmur slowly. The words are flat and hopelessly inadequate but Prim is satisfied with the answer.

"This place must be frightfully dull for you, then," she says, turning to address him.

"Not quite. You've painted such a lovely picture with your words. From what I gather, District Twelve is not without its charms and what's more, your home is inviting and full of good company; things sorely lacking where I'm from."

The words unspool easily from his mouth, so unlike mine. When he looks at me, I understand. He is no longer that stranger; all angles and bruises and cautiously deferential. He's become himself again; the man on the balcony. Confident and composed, as if this place is and always has been his element.

In my stunned state, I manage to catch only the tail end of Prim's response. "…much better than I do, right Katniss? I've just about run out of interesting stories to tell. Let's hear one from you."

I blink, caught off guard. I'm not sure where Prim got that I was a good storyteller. When she was younger, I used to tell her tall tales to help her sleep or make her smile when she was sick; but those were silly, trivial things. Unprepared, I begin to recite the first anecdote that pops into my head. "There was a lynx that used to follow me around…"

Prim makes a face. "One with a happy ending," she amends. I forget that she doesn't like that one.

I lapse into silence, beginning to doubt a happy memory exists in this place as well as my ability to recount it. Still, I try; reaching deep into the furthest corners of my mind when it comes to me in a streak of clarity. "What about the time father took us to the woods?" I ask.

She pauses for a moment before shaking her head. "I don't remember that at all."

"You were very little when it happened. I think you were alamost five and I was nine. It was in the springtime and we went deep into the forest to look for food. Instead of searching the ground, all you wanted to do was look up at the sky." As I unwind myself into memory, I find myself smiling a little.

"That day was nothing out of the ordinary for awhile; just quietly walking and picking over whatever edible things we found. Then you started hopping up and down with excitement, pointing at something that caught your attention. It was a bird's nest but not just any pile of sticks. Mockingjay nests flash in the sunlight because they like to collect shiny things. It was too high for you to see, even on Father's shoulders, so I climbed up the tree to take it down. I thought you would be disappointed to know that it was just bits of foil paper reflecting the light and inside there were a few muddy colored eggs no bigger than a chicken's. But you stood there in awe, staring in complete silence for several minutes. Finally, you spoke."

Prim is half-leaning from her chair, enraptured. "What did I say?"

"_'Can I keep them'_?"

She laughs and I do too. "I could have guessed that," she admits a little sheepishly. "What happened next?"

"Father patted you on the head and said that their mama would miss them terribly. You argued that she was nowhere to be seen, so finder's keepers. Besides, you'd feed them and play with them and that nest would sure look pretty sitting on top of the fireplace. But as I recall, you folded pretty quickly when he told you that the mama bird was probably off looking to find food for her soon-to-be hatchlings. You remembered that we were supposed to hurry and look for our own food before our mother started missing us."

"We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring and gathering until the sun had set. Father knew you would get bored easily so he made it fun. While we worked, he showed us different animal tracks and named all the birds calling high up in the trees. We splashed in the river and picked flowers. He taught us which fruits and plants were poisonous and which were safe to eat. It was a good season; we ended up with two whole sacks of things to trade and treat ourselves with. You were so tuckered out by the end, father had to carry you all the way home on his back. It was the first and last time he took you along to one of our outings. He figured you wouldn't like them near as much it was all work. But even now, I think of you and that day whenever I see a mockingjay's nest."

"Wonderful," Prim deems happily. "I liked it very much."

"It was a lovely story."

My smile fades. I had been so caught up in the memory, I'd forgotten that he was listening. A part of me is self-conscious of that sliver of vulnerability. I stare at him with hardened eyes, disregarding any carefully constructed pretenses. There is no blindness this time, just grim understanding. He truly is a product of the two-sided coin that is the Capitol. Beyond the captivating lineaments and pleasant demeanor is something dark, twisted. As long as I know this, I will never be led astray.

Prim is quick to notice the shift of mood. "Cards," she announces suddenly. "Why don't we play a game of cards? It's been ages."

"That's a fine idea," Seneca replies gamely, breaking our eye contact. "Which one do you suggest?"

"Rummy. Do you know how to play?"

"I can't say I'm familiar with it but I'm a quick learner."

"Good, I'll teach you. Once you understand the rules, let's make it interesting. Whoever wins two out of three games gets the last slice of chocolate cake. Won't you join us, Katniss?" She looks at me hopefully. "The more people, the more fun it'll be."

Saying 'no' would be easy. Prim wouldn't mind it too terribly and I would be able to resume my relative isolation. But what good would that do in the end? Hiding behind a book and being ruled by my uncertainty is cowardly and I'm anything but a coward.

"I'd hate to be the one to eat the last slice of your favorite cake," I say finally.

"Hey, I've gotten better! Rory gave me a few tips…"

I move over to unceremoniously seat myself in a hard wooden chair on the side of the bed, opposite to Prim. I half-listen as she explains the rules to him. My mind begins to wander down a trivial string of thought as I watch her handle the cards. They're shiny and new; she must have bought them recently. The deck we had before was grimy and bent around the corners. Some of the ink had worn off in places due to too many fingers rubbing against it over the years. But knowing her, she hasn't thrown them out. It has the sentimental value of hundreds of games played with our father ingrained within its very fibers.

Mother always complained that cards were a waste of time and she wasn't about to let her daughters go off and gamble at the Hob with this newfound skill. She said this time and time again but never stopped us, as it was a rare form of entertainment in our house. On rainy days or slow summer nights, Father would take out his cards and teach us the games he knew; Blackjack, Poker, Solitaire, Hearts, Cassino, and Rummy; our mutual favorite. I didn't know it then, but contrary to my mother's beliefs, learning how to play cards was valuable. I was trained in strategy, quick judgement, resourcefulness, and deceit; skills I would later use to support my family. Perhaps that was my father's intent after all, though he had been so cheerful and relaxed, I have a hard time believing it's anything but coincidental.

The muffled sound of the deck being shuffled and distributed anchors me back to reality. I take my hand and study it, rearranging the cards and thinking of a plan of action. Prim was right; it had been ages. I don't feel as quick or confident in my movements as I once was.

He slightly shifts beside me. I glance over instinctively to gauge his expression. Serious and inscrutable. More than ever, I want to peer inside that mind of his.

Poker faces, stacked odds, and upper hands... I wonder if we have been playing a game of cards ever since the moment he woke up.

* * *

"Damn it!" I drop the needle and let out a small hiss of pain. A bright red bead of blood wells up on the tip of my finger.

Prim immediately takes my hand, splaying it open for inspection. We had been sitting cross-legged on the window seat where the light was good, her resources pooled in the space between us.

"Ouch." She frowns and then pushes her work aside to stand. "Wait here; I'll go upstairs to find a bandage and some disinfectant."

"It's just a tiny puncture. Don't bother," I say, but it's too late, she has already swiftly exited the room.

It was Haymitch who decided I should begin to spend my time wisely. "You've got four months to find something you're good at and stick to it," he ordered. That was as far as his instructions went so I came up with a list of Talents on my own to try out. Embroidery, dancing, pottery, fluting, and painting; the list goes on and on, each one more innocuous and frivolous than the last. It's silly, but this is what is expected of me now.

In the past, Mother was the one responsible for mending our clothes when they began to break down but it was Prim who liked to embellish the plain dresses and aprons we wore by embroidering the hems. She became quite good at it and I wrote down this particular Talent with her in mind, hoping that she would be able to teach me.

I watch as the blood begins to trickle down slowly. I must have stabbed myself deeper than I thought. If this is any sign of how the rest of my search will turn out, it looks ominous.

"I didn't picture you as the type to needlepoint."

My head jerks up sharply. I see him from across the room, reclined in chair, a book open in his hands but his eyes on mine. There's amusement tinged in his voice. "Let me guess; is this your Talent?"

"It hasn't been decided yet. I'm still learning," I reply coldly.

He hums thoughtfully and marks his spot before snapping the book shut. "Perhaps you should find something less dangerous to you."

"So you're naturally good at everything you try the first time?" I ask sarcastically.

"Well… yes." The corners of his mouth upturn, his white teeth flashing briefly. I realize he's humoring me in the same easy manner he does with Prim. I don't know how to react. Aside from the usual mundane pleasantries, I haven't spoken to him in private since the day the letter arrived. It doesn't help that our previous conversations haven't been exactly lighthearted.

"I did win those rounds of Rummy the other day," he reminds me.

"That was beginner's luck," I say, hoping to poke a hole in his ego.

He chuckles. It's a pleasant, low sound. "We can settle that easily enough with a rematch. That is, unless you're unable to play with your injury."

My eyes narrow. He's gotten too familiar with me for my taste. I find myself missing the subtle apprehension from before, when I had been somewhat feared.

Before I can muster a retort, my blood begin to drip onto the unfinished work sitting on my lap. I curse and try to shove it away but the damage has already been done. Two scarlet starbursts have imprinted on the snow-white handkerchief. I can't say that it's ruined the piece since the stitches were already ugly and uneven.

"This is stupid," I mutter angrily. "What's the point of a taking on a Talent anyway?"

There's a definite pause. "Do you wish for me to answer, or is this a rhetorical question?" he asks.

"No, please enlighten me." My voice is flinty with irritation but a part of me is curious to hear his answer. If I was going to bleed to death in my attempts to appease Haymitch and President Snow and whoever else cared for something so insignificant, I'd like to know why.

He finds this good enough reason to continue. "It's a tradition that traces back to the 12th Games. Valerius Hargrove, the President at the time, instated that particular rule to prevent a repeat of the scandal from the previous year."

"What scandal?" The throbbing of my finger lessens as my curiosity grows.

"The most recent Victor from District Six committed suicide." He says the word without batting an eye. "He was the first. It caused a great controversy, as you can imagine. To throw one's life away after fighting so fiercely to preserve it just months earlier was unthinkable. President Hargrove decided it would be prudent to set up Talents as a safeguard. Aside from the certain level of entertainment and sense of comfort it provided, they are essentially nothing more than mindless hobbies to distract Victors from the trauma of the Games."

I understand what he means by 'entertainment'. Especially skilled Victors would be shuttled back and forth from their home District to the Capitol to either entertain at private parties or attend galleries to auction off their wares. But 'comfort' strikes a chord in me. "What do you mean by that? 'Comfort'?"

"Comfort in knowing that wealth and leisure time were awarded to a worthy Victor, that even the most savage of people could nurture a harmless art."

I grimace. "That's repulsive."

"One of our lesser moral transgressions," he acquiesces with a nod.

"Of course." The words spring from my mouth, heated by a flare from within. "You say that now, but when you were one of them, it never crossed your mind, did it? That we were more than playthings for you to control and amuse yourselves with long after we finished playing your Game."

To my annoyance, he doesn't react the way I want him to. He's strangely calm, unaffected aside from his eyes. Though they are the same icy color, they've changed somehow.

"I understand your displeasure," he says simply. "And I agree. My perspective has been warped by my upbringing; something I could not possibly control. However, seeing as I'm now far removed from such interests, sympathy, even one acquired belatedly, is still welcome, is it not?"

I shift in my seat. My temper has begun to cool and I'm unable to find any fault in his reasoning. "I guess," I murmur disappointedly.

"Good. I will try to be wiser with my choice of words from now on." His gracious deflection has me wondering if I had acted like a petulant child, too quick to indignation.

"May I make a suggestion?" he asks.

I frown slightly. "What is it?"

"It would do you well to find a Talent more suitable to your interests. Not all Talents have to be mundane affairs. If you look hard enough, you'll find something you will enjoy and excel at. Again, this is merely a suggestion." He opens his book again. I finally recognize the deep purple cover and the faintly gilded paper.

"That's the book I was reading yesterday," I say without thinking.

He looks up at me. "Yes. It came highly recommended."

To keep the awkwardness of our previous conversation at bay, I pretend that we are two normal people discussing a book. "And how do you find it?" I ask boldly.

Seneca offers a scant smile. "Interesting."

Prim returns with her first aid supplies. While she dresses my finger, I surreptitiously watch him as he reads, noting the tiny rapid movements of his eyes as they travel across the page.

Too dissatisfied to continue with my handkerchief, I crumple it up and stuff it into one of the drawers underneath the window seat. I try to focus on Prim as she works on finishing hers so that I might properly learn for a second attempt but my attention drifts in and out.

It irritates me more than it should. I had spent an entire morning staring at that exact book but for the life of me, I can't remember if it had been happy or sad.

* * *

**/**

**A/n:**

Inspiration: 'A Heavy Abacus' by The Joy Formidable

I hope I haven't gotten rusty since the last update and that this was worth the wait! I started this all the way in August but school and writer's block made it an uphill battle to finish. However, the kind responses from the last chapter were what kept me working on it every spare moment I could find.

In a burst of inspiration (around finals of all things) I managed 8,000 words. Since it was so long, I have split it up into two parts. I'm going to try to stockpile as many chapters as I can during my winter break so posts can seem a bit more regular during the school year. Thanks for reading!

**- Chiisana inori**


	10. Chapter 10

**/**

**K. POV**

* * *

In the bleaker moments of the Games, when I was alone and afraid, I fantasized of life as a Victor: My pockets lined with coins. The cupboards fully stocked. Prim in pretty, new dresses. Mother beginning to smile again. What I did not take into consideration was time. With school still out for summer and the day-to-day struggle to keep alive long gone, I find that there is an absurd abundance of it now. It seems to stretch on endlessly; a great yawning void to sit and think about what I had done.

From the start, I looked for normalcy in distractions. I wandered around town, did household chores, visited Haymitch, and found diversions with Prim. Even after a lifetime of knowing nothing but hardship, the lack of purpose grew tiring quickly. Still, I knew I should enjoy the monotony while I could, before the Past could come rushing back with the winter Victory Tour.

I never once throught my respite would be cut short or that the Past would be a tangible being come to haunt the room below mine.

"Has there been any progress?" I ask tersely. I'm standing in Haymitch's den, arms folded over my chest. In my visits for the past few days, I've caught him sleeping or lounging around with a drink; anything, it seems, but working towards securing a fresh start for our guest.

"Didn't you hear? Patience is a virtue." He doesn't look up; busying himself with carving an apple with a paring knife. Mother insisted I bring him over a basket of fresh fruit today. She doesn't think it's healthy for him to live off canned food and liquor, but if it hasn't killed him yet, I'm sure he'll be fine.

"And mine is not the only one wearing thin," I retort. "How do you think he likes being held prisoner in that room all day?"

Haymitch raises his brows in exaggerated surprise. "Is that _sympathy_ I detect?"

Though I know better, I take the bait and bristle. "Don't change the subject. I want to know that you're doing everything you possibly can."

"What do you want me to do? Put in an ad in the paper?" he grunts in annoyance. "Even with that list of names, it's still too early to make phone calls around the Capitol without rousing unwanted attention." When I still look unconvinced, he rolls his eyes. "It's a waiting game, Sweetheart. Things will fall into place soon enough. When it does, you'll be the first to know."

I sigh in frustration. Haymitch is hardly a model example of finesse but a part of me admits that he's been around long enough to know what he's doing, especially where the insidious ways of the Capitol is concerned.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask.

"Do what you've been doing. Amuse Crane."

"Amuse? That's what you're calling it?" I scoff as I sink down beside him on the sofa. "If I remember correctly, it was you who said I had the charm of a dead slug."

"Did I?" He grins. "Well, don't take half the things I say to heart, especially when I'm hammered."

"Trust me, I don't usually." I pick up an apple and roll it around in my hands. "But you're right. I'm not good with people. And with him it's even worse. I look at him and all I see the person he was in that horrible place."

To my irritation, Haymitch begins to snicker.

"How is that even remotely funny?" I growl.

"You must be driving him up the wall."

My scowl deepens. "It's not on purpose."

"Think about it. Capitol society is like a pit of snakes ready to strangle and swallow any poor sap whole. Crane's a smart one. He knows how to handle people; he wouldn't have gotten anywhere without it. Hell, he was Snow's favorite for the longest time and that ain't easy to do. But _you_…" Haymitch smirks. "He's probably trying his damnedest to get you to put away that cold shoulder of yours."

"Are you saying I should try harder to get along with him?"

"I'm saying I'd pay good money to see who breaks first; the snake charmer or the stubborn mule."

As tempting as it is, I ignore the stubborn mule comment. The only thing that seems more dangerous than a pit of snakes is something cunning enough to live not only safely, but advantageously among them. Something doesn't add up. "You said before he wasn't all bad, that there were worst men than him. Was it true?"

"Do you remember everything I say or what?" he grouses with a mouthful of apple. "Yes. If it makes you feel any better, I find Crane tolerable in comparison. Stick around for as long as I have and you start to notice that there are evils and then there are lesser evils."

"He was the _Head_ _Gamemaker. _How can he possibly be a lesser evil?" I ask in disgust.

Haymitch shrugs vaguely. "Politics aside, he's not as close-minded or hackneyed as the typical Capitol drip."

"Maybe he's manipulated you into thinking that."

I expect a reprimand for my rudeness and a drawn out explanation why I'm wrong. Instead, he shakes his head and says, "It must be tiring to constantly look over your shoulder and think the worst of people."

I open my mouth, ready launch into a combative reply. However, at the last second a strange notion flits through my consciousness. Before I can stop myself, I say it out loud.

"Peeta would have made a better host." It isn't a question, a wondering what-if. It's a fact; plain and simple and a little morbid.

Haymitch goes silent. "Right," he mutters finally. "He would have rolled out the welcome mat."

"Nursed him back to health himself," I add.

"Given him his bed to sleep in."

"And his clothes to wear."

"Baked him a cake as a sign of goodwill," Haymitch concludes.

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "That would be something Peeta would do," I agree quietly.

In the silence, I stare at my hands and wonder what Peeta's life would have been like as a Victor. He would live in the house I live in now, maybe even in the same room as mine. Haymitch would still be well looked-after, when Peeta wasn't working at the bakery. Even though his pockets would be lined with coins and his cupboards would be fully stocked, I picture him up at dawn, kneading dough and frosting cookies; just because he enjoyed it.

I think he would be stronger than me. Somehow, he would find a way to cope so that the nightmares wouldn't be as bad, and there would be a passing sense of sadness now and then. Peeta would beat the Game long after it ended by living a happy and long life.

And if he did come across Seneca Crane, he would be kind and forgiving. That much I'm sure.

It dances on the tip of my tongue but I'm too afraid to ask it out loud; if Haymitch wished that it was Peeta who lived. Not me, the thorn in his side, always bothering him and starting arguments. A small new guilt piles on with the rest of them. Perhaps I shouldn't give him such a hard time.

I'm about to set the apple back in the basket but Haymitch stops me with a slight rap on the knuckles.

"Eat something once in a while," he grumbles. "Victors are supposed to _gain_ weight not lose it."

It sounds almost touching coming from him. Maybe he doesn't mind me as much as I think he does. Though I'm not hungry at the moment, in a show of compliance I lift the apple to my lips and sink my teeth into it.

* * *

With some maneuvering, I balance the tray with one arm so I can knock on the door with a free hand. Mother cooks, Prim provides company, and because I have little talent in either one, I am the errand girl; something I would resent if the situation didn't call for his sequestering. At least the work helps whittle away the long hours.

While I wait, I think back to the conversation with Haymitch from earlier. It's unnerving to know the power Seneca wields with words; especially since its one of my weaknesses. I wonder if every interaction we've had so far had been carefully orchestrated to win my favor, and if this one will end up just the same. This isn't very upsetting news, probably because I know his actions aren't unfounded, nor are they effective. I've been almost unfairly cold, shoulders and all. I can't exactly fault him for trying to dispel the tension I'm creating.

It would do me well to be more like Peeta.

The door finally opens. He takes a step back to let me in. "Good evening, Katniss."

He's been drawing. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms and there are faint grey smudges along his knuckles, the heels of his palms; darkest along his fingertips. It's strange to see such long, aristocratic hands sullied by charcoal dust. They almost look like working hands. Almost.

"Good evening," I return calmly. I stride in, careful to keep my hands steady. He shuts the door behind me, but I can feel his gaze track me from across the room.

I set down the tray on its usual spot. My work is almost done for the night. I always stop by after dinner to take his plates away, but like this, it's a near-wordless affair. I'm about to leave when I glance over and notice loose papers and pencils strewn on the usually neat bed.

"Am I interrupting something?" I ask.

"No. I was planning to take a break anyway." He wipes his hands clean with a towel and becomes himself again.

I glance back at the scattered pages. I've seen him sketch from afar many times, but have never seen any of his work up close. Prim enjoyed looking through them and often made admiring remarks. "I like this one!" she would declare, pointing. Or, "I wish I could see this someday!"

On impulse, I reach over with extended fingertips and gently fan the papers out. I absorb the images in silence; the steel cityscapes, exotic flowers and animals, elegant ladies and dashing gentlemen. Some are half-finished gauzy shapes, mere suggestions of things. Others are constructed out of bold sweeping lines and accentuated with dusky shadows.

I know little to nothing about art. While I can't comment on composition or style using technical terms, I find that this needs no words. It has an unnamable quality, the kind that can only be sensed and appreciated innately. How he managed to make the one place I hate with a passion into something so beautiful, I'll never understand.

I clear my throat, releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "These are good," I say. The words come out plain and stiff. They sound like a lie.

"Maybe for an amateur," he concedes humbly. "Which one do you like best?"

It's a friendly, offhand question; something I would easily counter with an acidic remark. But I slow down to think about what Peeta would do in this situation. Taking far longer than I should, I finally gesture to what initially caught my eye; a profile of a woman with a long-lashed gaze, butterflies decorating her towering pile of curls.

He draws nearer to get a better look. There's a respectable distance between us where he stops, no closer than it is when I pay my visits. I fight back a small ripple of nervousness anyway. Alone, with the darkness slowly descending outside, it feels different. Intimate, almost.

"Ah, yes." Seneca nods as if I've made an astute observation. "I like that one too."

"Is she someone you know?" I feel a slight sting of embarrassment once I say it. The question is invasive and unnecessary out loud.

But he smiles, pleased by my interest. "Yes, from a long time ago."

"Then all of these pictures are based on real people, places, and things?" I ask, unable to rein in my curiosity. Even with my brief experience in the Capitol, I have a hard time believing that these lovely, whimsical things actually exist, or that such details could be perfectly rendered from memory.

He pauses, cupping his chin in thought. His beard, so perfectly manicured when I first met him, has gone out to seed. The scimitar design is a lot less intimidating now that it's lost its edge, so to speak.

"In a way," he replies. "They're based on what I know but I'm sure they've been sentimentalized to a great degree. Memory does that. You see things not as they were, but how you want them to be."

I give the drawings another appraising look; this time with a better understanding. To an outsider, they might seem like nothing but a fantasy world but for him, it's home. I never imagined that he would keep a lingering attachment to the place that abandoned and replaced him so readily. He's never indicated as much, but then again, I'm no stranger to putting on pretenses.

"I was thinking about expanding my horizons," he goes on to say. "Work with something more immediate, for example."

"You mean District Twelve things?"

He nods. "The aspect of unfamiliarity would be a challenge, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but what's there to draw here?" I ask. I gesture at the four walls and plain furniture surrounding us. "You see the same boring stuff day after day. It's nothing worth putting on paper."

"The ordinary inanimate objects, yes, but living models are a different story."

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. I shake my head. "I hope you mean Buttercup."

"He's not my first choice but now that you mention it, he would be an interesting subject," he replies dryly.

There's no use wondering who his first choice could be. Prim or Mother are the only ones here who are as pretty and delicate as his drawings. I change the subject. "I never would have guessed that you were the artistic type."

"Is that so?" His quizzical expression brings out a surprising warmth in his eyes.

"You don't look like it." I furrow my brow a little, trying to put it into words. "You seem too… what's the word? ... _Logical_ for it."

"Sketching requires a bit of logic, actually," he says. "Physical concepts are important, such as the geometric composition of an object, the ways shadow and light move, and size in relation to space." He pauses and then chuckles ruefully. "But I won't go into it and bore you to death."

"It sounds interesting," I say, mostly because I don't want to be thought of as stupid, and partly, secretly, because there's something about his way of speech that intrigues me. I want to understand what he sees and how he sees it, and why there's that spark of passion in his voice.

"Are you thinking of pursuing it as a Talent?" he asks curiously.

I give a non-committal shrug. "It never crossed my mind. I always assumed you had to be naturally gifted for that sort of thing."

"Anyone can learn. I had a knack for drawing when I was a child but it wouldn't have gotten anywhere without proper lessons."

"That's a big difference," I point out. "You started young and took it up as a hobby. There's no way I could compete."

He smiles knowingly. "Actually, the lessons began when I was twenty-two. They were required and very boring, I might add. There's hope for you yet."

It's a harmless response but something about it strikes me as odd. I stop and think. Required… Why would it be required of him? And at that age?

The swift revelation triggers my blood to crystallize into ice. Of course. Art lessons, to bring his ideas to life.

The horrible dog Muttations are what first come to mind. He was the one responsible for sending them out, but now I wonder if he had personally created those monstrosities as well. Maybe they started out as nothing but rough sketches of his; born from sleepless nights, fatigued eyes, and dirty hands.

Suddenly I'm back in that place. Peeta is scrabbling to join me atop the Cornucopia. I dig my fingers into his arms, trying to haul him up. The sound of snarling and barking in the distance blend with his gasps.

I blink and it changes. Now Cato's on the ground. His agonized screams echo in the night as the pack of Muttations rip him apart, chunk by chunk.

_"If he wasn't exiled, he would have kept playing his twisted games. Capitol people are all the same."_

"Katniss, are you feeling all right? You're looking pale." His voice sounds muffled in my ears, as if I'm underwater and he's speaking from the surface.

I look at him dazedly. My stomach is one giant knot that seems to tighten with each breath.

"I'm fine. I need to go," I say tersely. "Your food is getting cold."

I'm barely aware of turning to leave or my feet taking me to the dining room. I find my mother setting down the silverware and I tell her I'm not hungry; I need fresh air and I'll be outside.

* * *

I'm sitting on the porch swing, slowly rocking myself back and forth by the heels of my boots. From here, I can see the rest of District Twelve in the distance; a composition of small dots of light and the faint outline of clapboard houses. Beyond that, there are the trees of the forest, standing out stark and black against the darkening hues of the sky. It's a beautiful from here.

This is my home and it always has been but I feel sick for the one I knew when I led a simple and ordinary life. I hug myself tightly, even though it isn't cold. Maybe it's just my memory sentimentalizing things.

Gale was right; I used to be a callus. Living here, you need a thick skin and I had protected myself well. I was the girl who always sacrificed emotions for practicality, who wasn't afraid of anything except a starving family. The Games have changed that. It's sloughed me down to raw nerves, sensitive to smallest of things. Not a day goes by where I'm not nervous or suspicious or moody. I hate it.

The old Katniss would sneer if she could see the person I've become. I tried to be her; I did. I gave him a place to stay, told him the past was in the past, and even defended him against Gale. But as noble as these actions might seem on the surface, they're rendered meaningless with my constant inner struggle; the way I keep him at an arm's length.

I frown. As soon as I think that, I retract it.

The porch light flickers on automatically, sensing the darkness. It buzzes overhead. The squeaking of the swing hinges abruptly stops and I am still, save for my slight breathing.

The distance is debatable. Just a few moments ago, I felt myself drifting in too close. It happens when I least expect it; a slight almost gravitational pull towards him. His voice, his eyes… the very things I feared not too long ago have a curious way of drawing me in. Like the tide rippling back and forth on a shoreline, I always catch myself and resist only for it to happen again and again.

I don't understand it, but then again, I'm not the most rational person at the moment. Just now, I had lost my head over the hasty assumption that he personally designed the Muttations I encountered in the Arena. For all I know, it could have been someone else. I wonder what it would take to let go of my prejudices once and for all.

Before I can venture any further on this train of thought, I see it, out in the distance. A figure ambles past the iron gates that flank Victor's Village. I press my lips into a straight line and slowly rise from the swing. I begin to walk and we converge somewhere in the middle, on the smooth bricked path that sprouts straight out into the main road.

A tiny hope sparks in my chest. "Hey Gale."

"Hey Catnip." His voice is missing its usual warmth. Up close I can see his grim expression clearly. My relief melts into doubt and then concern.

"I'm glad I caught you out here. I didn't want to interrupt everyone's dinner." He pauses awkwardly. "Thanks. For this; and all the other things you sent over to the house." He offers the knapsack to me. "I was hoping you'd stop by. I'd rather see you than the delivery boy from the grocer's."

"After the first few attempts, I got the feeling you didn't want to see me," I say as I take it.

There's a flicker of guilt on Gale's face. "I'm sorry for the ways things ended that day. I shouldn't have taken out my anger on you. That's why I came here; to set things right between us."

I study the bag hanging lightly in my hand. "What's the real reason you're here?"

There are a few beats of silence. "… Nothing gets past you, huh?"

"We've been friends for years. I know when you're being secretive."

He exhales and shakes his head. "Please don't be angry with me, Katniss. I have to do it."

That's when I catch it, a faint and familiar whiff on his breath. "You've been drinking," I say. It's a Friday night and this shouldn't surprise me but given the circumstances, a tingle of alarm shoots up my spine.

"Not that much," he retorts, frowning. I suppose that's true. He isn't stumbling or slurring his words but the odd brightness in his eyes is unmistakable. "Look, I'm trying to tell you something…"

A chill settles on my skin in spite of the warm evening air. "Then tell me."

Gale stares into my eyes, grey mirroring grey. He finally speaks. "I'm reporting him to the Peacekeepers."

The words roll around in my head like marbles, clashing and bouncing and slipping from my grasp.

"Have you lost your _mind_?" Panic sets in and constricts my lungs but I manage to choke out my words. "You'll get us all killed!"

He grips my wrists to keep me from doing something I'd regret. "Listen to me carefully," he insists, his voice a grating whisper. The smell is stronger now as he puts his face close to mine. "I'll say that I saw someone sneaking around Victor's Village. Turn him loose, leave him on his own. He can hide out somewhere or find his way back to the woods. If they find him and question you, deny knowing anything or say he threatened your family if you didn't help. Either way, he'll be out of your life and punished like he deserves."

For a moment, the idea is gloriously tempting. And then reality sinks in. I wrench free from his hold, stumbling a little. "It's not that simple. They'll find him and they'll make him talk. It's not about the District Peacekeepers, the people we know to look the other way. The Capitol will get involved and you know exactly what they're capable of."

His eyes narrow. "That won't happen," he says stubbornly. "They won't care what he has to say once they have him. For all they know, it's lies to save his own hide."

"Gale, you don't understand…"

"No, _you_ don't understand," he cuts in sharply. "He's a cold-blooded murderer. He damn near killed you, and you're just going to protect his worthless life? Don't you see how backward that is?"

I have no choice but to throw in the only bargaining chip I have on him. "Please. If you care for me at all, you wouldn't do this."

"I care, Katniss. I'm doing this with you in mind. This is your chance to prepare yourself. It'll be an hour before they come looking for him." He sighs, suddenly looking tired. "Catnip, come on. Don't give me that look. It'll turn out okay, I promise."

He tries to touch his hand against mine but I step back warily, as if he's a stranger. Perhaps he is. The Gale I know would never do something so selfish and reckless.

Hurt flashes across his face before hardening into an unyielding mask. No amount of pleading or threatening will change his mind now.

The minutes are ticking away. I turn and begin to run back to the house.

* * *

**/**

**A/n:**

Inspiration: 'Sour Cherry' by The Kills

Happy New Year to you all! After ten chapters and 30,000+ words, Katniss is finally reaching some sort of breakthrough. About time, right? Turning hate into love is tricky business, especially when it might be thwarted by other plans.

So far, I have pre-written the next two and a half chapters. It's taking all of my will power to not upload everything I have. I'm super excited about how things are turning out but I'll have to be patient and spread the updates so that they're regular. I'm hoping to post at least once a month while I'm in school so I'll see you guys again in February!

- Chiisana inori


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